House of Folded Paper
by NezumiPi
Summary: When paper is folded, tiny fibers break and they can never go back to the way they were. Grant Ward has built himself a new "family" that borders on a cult. Phil Coulson and SHIELD have to hunt him down before the body count gets too high. Set after the Season 2 finale.
1. Prologue - Ch 1

_This is the prologue, just a brief teaser. Unusually for me, I have the whole plot planned out and new chapters should be posted regularly and often._

* * *

Grant Ward was unhappy.

Not miserable. Miserable was how he felt when Kara had died in his arms. That was _grief_. This was just…unhappy. He wasn't sure why. He had minions. They did his bidding. He had an entire criminal enterprise – admittedly one that was weaker than it had been, but the infrastructure was there. It could be rebuilt stronger, better than before. Right?

His men were thugs. They obeyed him because he was dominant, because he was stronger, because he was the alpha wolf. He beat them as needed to reinforce this premise. He shot Gunner in the foot for insubordination. After that, they started playing the game without so much hesitation. But they still weren't _enthusiastic_ , except insofar as methamphetamine was concerned. (Grant tried a few hits of meth with them, hoping to learn that it was a valuable tool. He found it unsatisfactory. It lifted the unhappy mood briefly, but it limited his thinking, made it repetitive and paranoid. And when the drug wore off, he felt worse than ever, as if he would never have energy again.)

He didn't want fearful obedience, he wanted loyalty. And he wasn't going to get loyalty by taking over someone else's team. He would get it by building a team of his own.

* * *

"Mead, Oklahoma," said Coulson as he clicked the projector, "is a town of about five thousand people. Its largest industry is a residential school for the blind. There were two felonies committed in Mead last night: a murder," he said, as a crime scene photograph of a mutilated elderly man appeared, "and a bombing." A second photograph popped on the screen next to the first. It showed the smoldering ruins of an enormous farmhouse.

Skye opened her mouth in shock. Who would bomb a school full of children? "How many-"

"None," said Coulson. "The school was closed for fumigation. Interestingly, the local police have been unable to determine who it was exactly that ordered the fumigation."

May was looking at the old man. He had clearly been whipped with a belt or some other sort of wide strap. "Cause of death?" she asked.

"Gunshot wound to the back of the head." answered Coulson. It was a quick, relatively painless way to die. Which was odd, because whoever had killed the man had obviously wanted him to suffer. The whipping was pre-mortem.

"Sir," said Morse, "this is obviously awful, but I'm not clear on how it's SHIELD business."

"Because of a video obtained from the only security camera in town, outside of a convenience store."

* * *

Gas station surveillance, good quality video, obviously intended to catch those who filled up without paying.

Skye watches. She is not prepared.

A small bus pulls up. It's nondescript, deliberately so. There is an outline of a person's head in the back window. It is familiar. It does not move.

An older man climbs out of the passenger's seat to pump gas. He's on the high side of middle age, but not elderly.

Two women and a boy follow him, passing the camera on their way into the convenience store. The first woman is white, perhaps thirty years old. Her hair is braided and her gait is confident. The second woman is African American and much younger, probably not a teenager, but not much older than that. She has short hair and she glances from side to side as they enter the store. She is nervous. The boy's age is difficult to guess as he is somewhere between childhood and adolescence. Maybe eleven? Maybe fourteen? He has olive skin. He absently bites the tip of one finger before hurrying after the women.

A young man gets out of the driver's seat, taking the older man's place so the older man can step away and have a smoke. The young man leans on the bus. He looks weary. He turns, he faces the camera and- no. No, that doesn't make any sense. He's made mistakes, sure, but he's not evil. He wouldn't bomb a school, even an empty one. He's just not that kind of…

What the hell was Miles Lydon doing in Mead, Oklahoma?


	2. Chapter 2

_As stated in the summary, this occurs after the Season 2 finale. It contains spoilers for everything up until then. It also entirely omits the very last event in the finale (e.g., the thing with the rock and the ahhhh and the oh god no) because that would have been really complicated to work into the plot._

* * *

There was never a good time for personnel changes, mused Coulson. Mack had wanted out just before the showdown with the inhumans – Inhumans? Was it capitalized? He'd have to check with Skye. Then he had come back. Apparently Mack was willing to work under Coulson, as long as he got to chop off a hand first. Hopefully limb loss wouldn't be required of all Mack's supervisors.

Now Morse was jumping ship. Sort of. She'd asked to be taken out of the field entirely. She had initially wanted out of SHIELD, but Coulson had talked her down to deskwork. Maybe she would return to the field once her shoulder healed, once her hands stopped throbbing. Maybe she wouldn't. Coulson had to accept that possibility.

He wanted to be on the ground himself in Oklahoma, to actually see the wreckage of the school, but he had to stay back and coordinate the operation. May and Hunter were doing the on-site work. Skye was running facial recognition on the people in the video. Fitz and Mack were…okay, they were playing _Mario Kart_ , but they were ready to analyze samples as soon as they were available.

Coulson himself had just finished getting briefed by Simmons on the medical terminology in the old man's autopsy report and was now officially out of excuses for avoiding a very uncomfortable conversation with Skye about her taste in men.

* * *

"This smells utterly disgusting," said Hunter. The bomb had apparently ruptured a septic line. "This is worse than the time Bobbi and I were holed up in a waste-treatment plant in Belgrade and she-"

"Stop talking," said May.

Hunter scowled and continued sifting through the debris with a mop handle. "You know, I don't actually know what I'm looking for."

May looked at her watch. Hunter had only kept quiet for thirty-six seconds. "Pathetic," she said aloud.

* * *

Bobbi Morse glared at the bottle of pain pills. She had forgotten to set an alarm and had missed her last dose. Now her shoulder and her hands were throbbing. For whatever arbitrary reason, the tiny pinholes under her fingernails hurt much more than the gaping wound under her collarbone. Maybe if she'd paid more attention in her first aid classes, she would know why. As it was, her hands were causing her agonizing pain, the cure was in a little plastic bottle, and she couldn't get the damn thing open.

Bobbi growled. It was stupid and immature and she didn't care. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to be in a regular hospital with television and a morphine IV. She wanted Hunter and felt ashamed of herself for that. How on earth had he come to join SHIELD? And what kind of sick joke was it that he was finally taking a secure, responsible job at the same time she wanted to retire and stand guard outside a jewelry store?

She knew that on some deep level, quite possibly so deep that Hunter himself was unaware, he was bizarrely gratified to be the target of a trap meant to torment her. Because if his death would hurt Bobbi, then she must love him. The proof he was looking for. Whatever the reason, he had watched over her through the initial stages of her recovery, reminding her of their wild adventures and reading to her from celebrity gossip rags.

She knew what he would do if he were here. He'd open the pill bottle for her and make a joke about how she was normally stronger than him. He'd get her a glass of water and then he'd distract her while they waited for the medicine to kick in. He would tell her, it's just a few minutes, almost there. Well, none of that mattered, because Hunter wasn't there. He was off in Oklahoma following a lead. And ultimately, Bobbi was nothing if not self-sufficient.

So she judged the tensile strength of the plastic bottle, compared it to the sturdiness of the pills, and decided she could probably break one without destroying the other. She put the bottle on the floor, on its side, and balanced a chair leg on it. It was slow work without her fingers, but it was manageable. Once the chair was balanced, she sat down hard. The first two times, the bottle popped out from under the chair, but the third time, the plastic cracked, freeing the precious pills from within. She swallowed them dry and told herself it's just a few minutes, almost there.

* * *

Coulson sat down kitty-corner to Skye. "We lost track of Lydon during the Hydra uprising. He was still in Hong Kong at the time."

"He's not a killer," said Skye. "And I'm not saying that because I liked him or because we worked together. I'm saying it because he's not. He didn't even like to watch nature shows because it bothered him when the lion would kill the zebra. I mean it. There was this one with a river otter when it-"

Coulson raised a hand to cut her off. "His last known location was a Hong Kong detention facility." If SHIELD had ever tracked down the records, they had lost them when Hydra made their bid for power. Still, it was obvious enough what had happened. Miles was a suburban kid, good at computers but not much else, stuck in a country without allies, without access to technology, without a passport. He had probably turned to petty crime for food or housing. "Maybe he changed his views on violence while he was incarcerated."

Skye shook her head. "I can't imagine him in prison. A holding cell, maybe, but not a real jail."

"The Rising Tide was for freedom of information, against espionage. Did Lydon have any other political affiliations that you know of? Any other strong beliefs?"

She shrugged. "We'd sometimes divert money to ecology charities. Save the Rainforest, that sort of thing. I don't think it was a real passion of his as much as he thought it was funny. A Robin Hood sort of thing – steal from the big guys, give to the little guys."

"What kind of criminal behavior has he been involved in, besides hacking?"

Skye shifted from side to side, as if literally weighing her response. "Hacking isn't just about computer skills. There's also social engineering. That means talking people into giving you access. So there was probably some fraud in there." She ticked the list of crimes on her fingers. "He might have impersonated a cop. We definitely did a lot of trespassing, petty theft. I was a good pickpocket; he could never get the hang of it. A little vandalism." Skye looked up at Coulson, obviously trying to gauge how much disapproval he was projecting. "But nothing violent. Not even serious property destruction."

"It's possible he's being held against his will." Coulson acknowledged. He tightened his jaw. "Any progress on the faces?"

* * *

The nondescript bus is parked outside of a motel. A half-block away, actually, to decrease the chances they'll be spotted. The others are already inside.

"Are you a god?" asks Joseph. He's greying, but not completely grey. His face is firm, even though he's trembling.

Ward chuckles. "No, I'm not a god."

"Are you the devil?"

"No, not that either."

There is a beat of silence. Joseph swallows. "I feel…free," he says.

"It's just like I told you," says Ward. "You can find closure."

"He begged for his life," says Joseph. "I can't stop shaking."

"That's just the adrenaline. It'll go away in a bit. You just have to wait it out."

"Thank you," Joseph breathes.

"Don't thank me," says Ward. "You did this. You're stronger than you think." He hops out of the bus. "Let's go inside. The others are waiting."

Ward knows they each need different things from him. He knows them. They're his family. The boy will want to be near him, will follow him around. One of the women will relish the kill. The other will want to distract herself with her book of Sudoku puzzles. Miles will shower until the water runs cold – no mean feat at a motel. He needs Ward to give him permission to set aside his guilt.

There's a feeling of contentment and satisfaction when the scene plays out exactly as predicted. They say their prayers. They go to sleep.

* * *

Hunter used a length of copper pipe as a lever to overturn a piece of drywall. "It turns out only one of the sharks was real! The other four were-"

"Shut up and get Coulson on the line." May was staring at a pile of relatively unburnt debris

"All right, all right, I'll quiet down, but I'll have you know that story is hilarious."

"Get Coulson on the line _now_."

Hunter slung his pack around so he could reach the encrypted phone. As he did, he followed May's sight-line to see what it was that had gotten her attention. A fuse? A bit of explosive material? No, it was…why was she so worked up over a man's boot, nailed to the floor?


	3. Chapter 3

A second briefing. Morse was absent this time. One of her nailbed injuries was showing signs of infection and the med techs put her on sedating antibiotics.

Skye started them out. "So Mead School for the Blind used to be Central Oklahoma Indian School. The old guy who was killed, he worked there back when it was still okay to say 'Indian'." Skye waited for Coulson's nod before she continued. "The man in the video, the one who wasn't Miles, he's named Joseph Whitaker. He's a mechanic. He's Native American, Kiowa tribe. Apparently the government used to take kids from reservations and force them to attend these residential schools. And they were not like Hogwarts. Well, like the Professor-Snape-Forbidden-Forest parts of Hogwarts. Like the- They were bad, is what I'm saying."

Coulson ran his fingers along the barrel of his pen. It all fit together nicely. Except for the other people traveling with Whitaker and May's conviction that Ward was involved somehow. "What did you find on the others?"

"Pretty much that they all had crappy lives. Fitz, can you pull the video back up?"

Fitz nodded, vaguely frantic as always. Or maybe that was because they might be fighting Ward.

"The white woman," said Skye, pointing, "is Bethany Soames. She was an army medic, discharged under Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell. She ended up involved in prostitution. She killed one of her johns, claimed it was self-defense. I'm guessing nobody believed her because, you know, prostitute. She just got out of prison last year."

* * *

"Pass me the clear nail polish." Bethany Soames held out her hand.

"You know, you're prettier than I expected," said Ward.

"For a dyke?" asked Soames. She did not want to be called Bethany. No one called her Bethany.

"Well, I was actually going to say, 'for a hooker,' but that seems equally offensive."

They both laughed. Ward liked Soames. She was his equal in many ways. They weren't attracted to each other, which simplified matters.

"I wanted to tell you," said Ward, "that Miles got a location for the district attorney in your case. He's in Portland, so it might be a while before we can get out there."

"That's fine," said Soames. She was working some kind of foam rubber wedge between her toes, which Ward imagined was somehow related to the application of nail polish. "I've waited a long time. A few weeks won't matter."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Ward, "because I have a mission for you in the meantime."

* * *

"It gets worse," said Skye. "The African American woman is Nevaeh Little. She was in school for electrical engineering. I was looking for some kind of problem in her life, right? Like the other two? But things seemed pretty good, except she's Deaf, but that's not something you kill people over. You have to go back a ways to find it. She was a twin. She and her brother were out in this park when her brother got stabbed. She ran to get help, but I guess the police couldn't understand her and thought she was on drugs, so they detained her while her brother bled out."

Skye exhaled and looked down before continuing. "One of the cops who detained her is dead. He was burned to death in his squad car."

* * *

"SIX PLUS TEN?" Nevaeh signed slowly and distinctly.

Ward was still at the stage in which he had to translate to English, think of his answer, then translate it to American Sign Language. "NINETEEN." Ward could see the disappointment on Nevaeh's face. He corrected himself. "SIXTEEN. SORRY, SORRY. I SLOW LEARN I LEARN." He was solid on numbers up to ten, but eleven through nineteen still gave him trouble.

"YOU HAVE BROTHER-SISTER HOW-MANY?"

"TWO BROTHERS I HAVE. ONE SISTER I HAVE."

"GOOD! GOOD! YOU REMEMBER."

"I WANT LIKE LEARN YOU KNOW YOU TEACH I LIKE." Ward always began learning languages using what he thought of as 'spaghetti syntax' - he threw everything at the wall to see what stuck. "T-W-I-N SIGN HOW?"

Nevaeh stroked her each cheek with a closed fist. "T-W-I-N," she spelled, then repeated the sign.

"YOUR TWIN DEAF HEARING WHICH?"

"past-tense HE HEARING BUT HE SIGN."

"WE MAKE J-U-S-T-I-C-E." Neveah could read lips to some extent, but Ward tried to resist the urge to speak English to her. That's what everyone else did. Unless it was an emergency, he spelled or wrote words he couldn't sign. "WE GIVE US. WE MAKE US J-U-S-T-I-C-E."

* * *

"What about the boy?" asked Coulson.

"I wasn't sure I was going to be able to find him," said Skye. "Kids don't have IDs. But he's in the system in a big way. His name is Curtis Suarez and he's missing from juvenile detention. Best I can tell from the court documents, his step-dad beat his mom, so one night, Curtis shot his step-dad while he was asleep. That was when he was eleven. He's thirteen now. He's been locked up ever since."

* * *

"I brought us some more breakfast," said Ward, emptying a box of granola bars onto the bed. "Did you already take your medicine?"

"Yessir," said Curtis.

A chuckle. "Not 'sir'. Just Grant."

"Right…Grant."

"Soames said you did good work yesterday."

Curtis seemed unsure how to handle this compliment. "I just had to carry stuff to the right spots at the right time."

"And you did it, stuck to the plan. A lot of jobs just require you to follow orders and not do anything stupid. You'd be amazed how hard that is for some people."

"Oh."

Ward picked up a lopsided origami swan. "You did this?"

Curtis looked embarrassed. "Yeah. Nevaeh was teaching me how." He looked at the swan and frowned, as if trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. "I still did all my exercises, though."

Ward had given each member of his little family a personalized training regimen to build strength, endurance, agility, and combat skills. Only Soames had the underlying physical fitness to train like a SHIELD cadet. The others had to be brought along gradually, especially Curtis, who wanted to copy everything Ward did.

"Close your eyes," said Ward and he was pleased to see that Curtis didn't panic at the command the way he did a few weeks ago. "Now, where are the weapons in this room?"

"I have my knife and my gun. You have your stuff. Nevaeh's knife is in her duffle. Soames took her pistol with her outside, but her rifle is under the table."

"Good boy. That's some of the weapons. What about the rest?"

"Um…my belt, I could hit someone with it, or strangle them. There's a wine bottle. I could break that and stab someone with it. There's a pen. I could stab somebody in the eye. I guess I could smother somebody with a pillow."

"Smothering is very hard to do unless your target is very weak. Once they run out of air, they wake up and fight for their lives."

Curtis nodded. "If they were halfway through the door, I could slam it on their arms or their face or something."

"Possibly. Requires timing. I think the broken bottle or the belt are probably the best options out of the ones you named. You missed the blanket though."

"How do you fight with a blanket?"

"I'll show you," said Ward. "Stand up. Get in stance. Try to hit me."

Curtis swung wildly with his left while making a sharp jab with his right. It still wasn't great tactics, but it was substantially improved. Ward grabbed the blanket in a bunch and used it to absorb one punch while he dodged the other. Then, he spread the blanket out and wrapped it around Curtis's hands, restraining him. He hooked his left food behind Curtis's knee and pulled him forward – the boy's stance was too narrow. Curtis fell, unable to use his arms to brace himself. Ward caught him and set him down on the bed.

"Using improvised weapons takes practice, ironically, but your enemies won't expect it. That gives you the advantage," said Ward, continuing the lesson as he unwrapped the blanket. "You can do something similar with a jacket or-" Ward stopped, because it was obvious that Curtis wasn't paying attention.

The boy's mouth hung slightly open, his eyebrows pressed forward and down, his eyes darting quickly from side to side. His breathing was audible.

"That was too much, huh?" asked Ward.

"I'm fine," said Curtis, "I'm fine."

"Look at me," said Ward. "Look me in the eye." He waited until Curtis met his gaze. "What is the strongest weapon in this room?"

"You are," whispered Curtis.

"Fair enough. And what is the second strongest weapon?"

"I am."

"Good boy."

* * *

"Dr. Garner, this is Phil Coulson."

"You know I'd rather you call me Andrew." And Coulson usually respected that. So if he didn't... "You're calling with a request."

"I know you don't like forensic work," began Coulson.

Garner groaned. He had profiled gifted for SHIELD, and yes, that meant occasionally digging into the mind of a fairly screwed up person. But he had carefully arranged his career to avoid a full-time focus on forensics. Throwing himself into the worst of humanity always left him feeling deeply unclean. "You're right, Director, I don't like it."

"We need you," said Coulson. Sometimes the truth was the best argument. "A rogue ex-agent has gathered a group of disturbed people, ranging from a thirteen-year-old boy to a sixty-two-year-old man, and they're apparently traveling around murdering anyone who did them wrong. That's too many potential targets. We can't keep eyes on all of them. We need to get in his head and figure out what he's going to do next. Which means we need you."

"If not me," asked Garner, "who is your backup?"

"Kidnap someone from Quantico," said Coulson. "Hope Stockholm syndrome kicks in."

"You understand that forensic profiling is wildly inaccurate, only a little better than chance, right?"

"That's because you normally have very little to go on. In this case, you have a wealth of evidence. I can give you every psych report, every mission evaluation, interview access to half a dozen people who worked with him."

Garner was silent for several moments. Then, "I'll do it," he said, "on one condition."

"Name it."

"You take every reasonable step to remove the child from the situation. And once you do, I maintain control over his assessment, interrogation, treatment, and detention."

"Why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do." Garner sighed. "And because I think that this is going to end with deaths and I won't watch Melinda go through that again."

* * *

 **a/n: When I'm transcribing ASL, I'm giving a literal word-by-word transcription called a gloss. What Nevaeh signs is basically correct ASL grammar (as best I can tell...I'm not great at it). What Ward signs is radically incorrect.**


	4. Chapter 4

_A bit of a longer chapter. I had fun with the psychological profile pieces. That's not exactly what would normally go in a psych profile, but the language is approximately correct. Feedback feeds the beast. Please review._

* * *

Bobbi awoke slowly to find there was someone in bed with her. Hunter. Fully clothed. And despite the proximity of their respective crotches, he didn't have an erection. How gentlemanly.

"I know they had you talk with that profiler earlier," said Hunter. "And if you were a human being with normal feelings, you might be a little worked up over the fact that we're hunting down the man who kidnapped and tortured you."

"Garner was less interested in the torture and more interested in what Ward said, how he interacted with Agent 33."

"How are you holding up?" asked Hunter, stroking her hair.

"Badly, thanks for asking," said Bobbi, glib.

Hunter looked sad for a moment, but he knew better than to express pity. Instead he said, "They're saying Ward's got a kid as some kind of trainee / hostage hybrid."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"Is that what he was doing with Agent 33?"

"She was…not herself. It's not like I knew her before, but she wasn't an agent. She was so dependent, so unsure of herself. He was remaking her in his image. …I think. Maybe it was coming from her. Maybe it was coming from…I don't know."

"It's not like you to…" Hunter trailed off because he couldn't think of an inoffensive way to end his sentence. It wasn't like Bobbi to be indecisive, to end sentences with a pained and helpless sigh. "It's not like you to sleep this late."

"It's the Cipro." The horrible antibiotic she had to take because her left index finger was red hot and throbbing.

"Are you still tired?"

"Yes."

"Can I stay until you fall back asleep?"

"Only if you promise to keep talking."

* * *

Garner had finished reviewing the files, finished all his interviews. He had expected that the most difficult interview would be from Agent Morse since she had just been tortured and was now probably coming to the slow, unpleasant realization that she was unlikely to regain full range of motion in her left arm. But no, Morse was a SHIELD agent. She was utterly professional, gave him every detail he could ask for. The interview with Skye went surprisingly well – apparently her distaste for shrinks only applied when they were examining her own psyche. Coulson was a predictable mix of down-to-business and poorly-disguised guilt over the monster he had seemingly loosed on the world. The director still hadn't gotten fitted for a prosthetic. That was probably an issue he needed to talk to someone about. Someone other than Andrew Garner.

Of course, Melinda had a...unique perspective. Andrew wasn't particularly eager to hear it, not just because of jealousy. It would have humiliated her to recount her sexual encounters with Ward to anyone, let alone her ex-husband. He just asked her to write down anything relevant and left it at that.

No, the worst interview was with two pale scientists who obviously didn't do much fieldwork, who finished each other's sentences as they described a man who earned their respect and their trust before throwing them into the ocean. The woman was protective and angry; the man in undifferentiated distress. He thanked them for their time and left them to comfort each other.

Garner sat down to write his profile.

* * *

"Do you have any means of contacting Miles?" Coulson leaned on the doorframe in such a way that his left arm, or lack thereof, wasn't visible.

Skye thought about the possibilities. "There are old dropboxes, message boards. I don't know if he checks them." She dropped her hands to her thighs. "And more importantly, I don't know if he'll answer me. I did kind of get him arrested."

"Just reading your message might help shift his allegiance." Coulson paused. "If he does respond, could you trace him?"

"You're basically asking which one of us is the better hacker," said Skye. "So yes."

"Then do it. Put out a message. A short one. Say that you're worried about him and what he might be involved in. Put in a phrase or two that he'll recognize – inside jokes."

* * *

 _Psychological Profile of Ex-Agent Grant Ward by Dr. Andrew Garner_

 **Family of Origin:**

Grant Ward has reported a history of familial abuse on multiple occasions. Unsurprisingly, given the distal nature of the offenses, few of the allegations can be corroborated. The most complete account was provided during his initial SHIELD Academy evaluation. Ward reported experiencing physical violence, physical and psychological coercion, as well as bizarre and inappropriate discipline practices, such as the use of stress positions or forcing him to consume plain salt. A history of sexual abuse per se was denied, with the exception of rare sexualized assaultive behavior, such as his older brother threatening to cut off his genitals. Ward's evaluator at the time was of the opinion that Ward was resilient to these experiences and displayed no serious sequelae from them – this has obviously been refuted by more recent events.

The question has been raised as to whether Ward may have entirely fabricated his allegations. There is some evidence to support Ward's claims found on his initial SHIELD physical, including multiple healed metatarsal fractures and a burn scar in the shape of a skeleton key, though this is by no means conclusive. The evaluation of familial abuse is difficult even when the events were recent and there is no possibility that the evidence has been elaborately altered by Hydra, SHIELD, etc. As such, no conclusion can be , it is the opinion of this evaluator that Ward believes his allegations to be true.

* * *

"Did you take your medicine?" asked Ward. He placed a white marble on the grid.

"Uh, not yet." Curtis shook his head and dug through his duffle for the little pill bottle. "How long do I have to take these? What are they for? They make me feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Then it's a good chance to practice getting mastery over your own body. There are things you can do – breathing exercises, mental imagery." Ward paused. "It's your turn."

Curtis knew a brush off when he heard one. Grant must have a good reason. Curtis changed the subject. "Where's Soames?" he asked. He moved one of his black marbles closer to the others to make a defensive pattern. He was starting to get the hang of this game.

Ward smiled. "Remember when I told you about the people I used to work for? The ones who are after me? She's laying down a false trail to confuse them. She'll be back in a few days." He played another marble.

* * *

 **Personal Characteristics and Habits:**

During his time at the Academy, then-Cadet Ward was first observed to have a fear of asphyxiation, particularly in the context of drowning. This is related to a childhood experience in which he (allegedly) witnessed the near-drowning of his younger brother. Mild phobias are common and easily treatable. The cadet was ordered to undergo graded exposure therapy and, again, this was judged successful. _(The next sentence that he would normally have written was, "Ward then eroticized asphyxiation, developing a fetish for holding his breath and being choked." It needed to be written, but it would be painfully obvious where he got the information. 'Come on,' he coached himself. 'You're a professor, you know how to write everything in the passive voice, the actorless action.')_ It is quite possible that a young man in this position would fetishize oxygen deprivation. _(Close enough.)_ He is heterosexual. He is capable of flirting and seduction, but lacks the social skills to develop and maintain a normal relationship. He is highly masculinized. He sees femininity, though not necessarily women, as weak. He is able and willing to suppress these traits if necessary to meet a higher goal. He is of above-average intelligence and is multi-lingual. He has a high tolerance for boredom.

* * *

They sometimes stayed in motels, getting two adjoining rooms: one for the men, the other for the women and Curtis. More often, though, they found an empty house, one whose owner was out of town. They didn't steal, other than food and the occasional chapter book, and they took pains not to wreck the place, but they didn't go out of their way to erase signs of their presence. They left beds unmade, footprints in dust, dishes drying on the counter. In one home, Joseph fixed a broken showerhead. In another, Nevaeh reprogrammed the television to skip over channels that didn't get a signal. In a third, Miles logged on to the family's computer and downloaded 3.2 gigs of porn – regular porn and good quality too, not the sick stuff. They weren't saints, but they weren't monsters either.

It was in one of these houses – this time in an affluent suburb of Memphis, Tennessee – that Curtis was lying on a dusty daybed in what was obviously a guest room. They'd drawn lots and for once he wasn't the one stuck sleeping on the couch. He lay back, looking comfortable, with his hands laced together under his head. Ward sat down on the corner of the bed to unlace his shoes and take off his tie. He would be sleeping on the pullout bed, which barely accommodated his full height. Curtis supposed the nice thing to do would be to trade. Curtis also supposed that he didn't get broken out of jail to do nice things.

"Have you ever," asked Curtis, staring at the ceiling, "you know, with a man?"

Ward turned his chin from side to side, stretching his neck and giving himself a moment to think. There were two possible reasons for Curtis to be asking that. It was possible he wanted to know if Ward was attracted to males and therefore a threat to him. It was also possible he wanted to know if Ward shared his experiences and therefore could sympathize or provide guidance. Unfortunately, the two possibilities required opposite answers. "Why do you ask?" he said, finally.

"Does it matter?"

Ward loosened his tie, slipped it over his head, and laid it on a bureau. "I don't enjoy sex with men," he said, "and I haven't had much in the way of experiences with them." That response covered half the possibilities and had the advantage of being true, at least. Furtive masturbation with other boys at military school hardly counted. And that thing he'd done for Garrett had been about power more than it had been about sex.

"Oh," said Curtis. "So you've never…nobody's ever made you do stuff."

It was option B. Oh well. Ward could still cover that. "You're asking if I've ever been raped?" He paused for confirmation, but he was looking in the other direction. He heard some rustling against the duvet and assumed Curtis nodded. "I have, but not by a man." Saying it out loud was strange. He didn't normally think of the incident with Lorelei in those terms.

"A woman? Women do that? How? You're really strong. Did she drug you or something?"

"Or something." Ward felt his smile muscles twitching. That was weird. It wasn't a pleasant memory.

"She made you…?"

"Yes."

"Did you, I mean, you didn't want to, right? But you did. So did you…you know…I mean, it wouldn't work if you didn't-"

"You're asking if I got an erection?" Ward had to control his tone for the last word, which always made him think of health-and-hygiene classes.

Curtis apparently found the concept too embarrassing, because he brought his elbows together in front of his face.

"Is that what this is about?" Ward didn't have to listen for the bedspread to rustle this time. "Okay, yes, I got hard. I came too." He paused. "When you were in lockup, your body responded, didn't it? And you're wondering what that means?"

Curtis made a sound that might have been 'yeah'.

"It means nothing. Absolutely nothing. You're thirteen – a light breeze will give you a stiffy. It doesn't mean you liked it, or that you're gay. It just means you have the parts and they work."

Curtis seemed to relax a little. "I try not to think about it, about stuff like that. But I can't stop thinking about it."

"That's why we need to help you find closure," said Ward. "You'll rest easier when the responsible parties have paid their debts." He paused. "That's why you need to look at the pictures." The boy had yet to identify his assailant or assailants.

"No, no, no." Curtis shoot his head so quickly, his jaw didn't quite follow the rest of his face and instead vibrated a half-beat behind. He had tried looking at those pictures. He hated looking at those pictures. He was never looking at those pictures again.

"You know," said Ward, frustrated, "sometimes I wonder if you don't want to find closure at all." As soon as he said the words, Ward knew he had made a mistake. It sounded too much like something John would have said, accusing Grant of 'playing the victim', of weakness.

Curtis's face contorted strangely, his head sunk down, and his shoulders drew upward. "I'm sorry," he said, "I want to help."

"Hey, hey, it's all right." Ward touched the boy's shoulder – lightly, from the front, the way it was most likely to be comforting and least likely to be frightening. "These things take time. You're getting stronger. And in the meantime, you have me to protect you. What does 'ward' mean?"

"Protection."

"That's right." Ward stretched his arms and suppressed a yawn. "You're safe with me."

* * *

 **Psychological State:**

The preponderance of evidence indicates that Grant Ward is neither psychotic nor a psychopath. Psychotics are markedly out of touch with reality, as evidenced by hallucination, delusion, and/or thought disorder. Ward has shown excellent ability to develop, implement, and adjust complex plans. Although his behavior is morally repugnant, it is grossly rational.

Psychopaths lack the capacity for empathy and will aggressively 'look out for number one'. Ward appears to have selective empathy for those with whom he chooses to identify; he lacks empathy for those he considers enemies. Ward's pattern of empathy is not grossly unusual and is in fact an exaggeration of normal in-group / out-group psychology. Another key marker for psychopathy is a might-makes-right belief system and an accompanying disdain for those the psychopath perceives as 'weak'. Again, Ward does not appear to fit this criterion. However, Ward does display some psychopathic traits. Many psychopaths are glib and superficial, capable of using their own emotional displays to manipulate others. This is the symptom that is most notably evident in Ward's behavior. In addition, he lacks remorse for harming those who he believes 'deserve' it, though he does display limited remorse for harming those he perceives as weaker than he (i.e., Agent Fitz, Agent Skye).

Nonetheless, Ward is emotionally unstable. He likely experiences flashes of rage, emptiness, shame, and sadness that he can neither control nor comprehend. He has a history of suicidal and parasuicidal behavior. If literally or figuratively backed into a corner, he will likely attempt suicide in a dramatic and destructive manner (i.e., suicide bomb, dead man's trigger, etc.).

* * *

"Miles," said Ward, "I need these surveillance cameras turned off at the listed times." He held out a paper with about a dozen locations.

"What for?"

Ward craned his neck forward. His lips parted slightly to show his teeth and his stance subtly widened. The effect was that of a threat. "You don't need to kn-" Ward shook his head as if to clear it and the threatening posture disappeared. "Have you ever had a regular job, Miles? What am I saying; I know you haven't. In normal jobs, they do this thing called a performance review. The boss brings you in and tells you what you're doing well and what needs to change. I think it's time for you and me to have a little performance review. Okay?"

"Uhh…"

"See, Miles, you're a very intelligent and creative man. I value those traits in people. I value those traits in you. But I don't see you taking initiative. Don't you want to help your brothers and sisters?"

Miles glanced to the side, obviously uncomfortable. "You didn't tell me there was going to be killing, man."

"I broke you out of prison."

"Yeah, and I'm really grateful for that, but I didn't think you wanted to-"

"You know," said Ward, "you seem to have this problem with not thinking through the consequences of your actions. First, you didn't think about what might happen if you sold information to Centipede. Now you're saying you didn't think about why I would want to break you out of prison. Do you know what I think? I think you lie to yourself and pretend that it's all a big surprise. That way you don't have to take responsibility for any of it."

"That's not-"

"You're not a prisoner here, Miles. You're a member of my family and it's time you started acting like it. Don't you want closure?"

"What do you want me to say?" Miles sounded almost panicked now.

"Tell me what you want," whispered Ward.

"I want…I don't want anyone to die, I just want…I want Skye."

Ward's eyes narrowed. "She's a person, not a prize to be won."

"Oh that's rich, coming from you. You told us how you chased her all over the country."

"That wasn't to _win_ her, it was to _earn_ her." Ward's voice was very soft and dangerous.

"Yeah, I'm sure she'd rather be a paycheck than a prize," muttered Miles and in an instant, Ward had crossed the room, pulling Miles up from his seat. Their eyes met. Ward's were hard and angry. Miles' eyes were confused and cowardly.

Miles looked away first. Ward dropped him back into his chair. Ward now looked curiously blank, as if the muscles in his face had stopped communicating with his brain.

As Ward backed slowly out of the room, Miles said, "I'll take care of the cameras."

* * *

 **Relationship to 'Followers':**

It is particularly notable that Ward did not select the strongest, most skilled individuals to follow him. The unifying theme amongst the followers as yet identified is that they were all wronged in some terrible way, and that this wrong was done by culpable people, rather than by accident or an impersonal force. This obviously aligns with Ward's view of his own experiences.

It is this author's opinion that Ward is preoccupied with people who have some form of power (age, rank, size, status, etc.) and use this power to harm others weaker than themselves. For simplicity's sake, this paper will refer to the former group as 'bullies' and the latter as 'victims' (Ward does not necessarily use these terms). Ward likely categorizes SHIELD as a bully organization. He is particularly likely to perceive Agent May, Agent Morse, and Director Coulson as bullies.

Ward lacks empathy for those he considers bullies. He feels the only purpose they serve is to die in a manner which eases the pain of their victims. He believes he was victimized by the bullies in his family and that their deaths afforded him 'closure'. Ward has genuine, albeit immature, empathy for victims. He wants to offer them this same 'closure' by aiding them in murdering their bullies. He earnestly believes this is in their best interests and will be resistant to any evidence to the contrary. He lacks recognition of the fact that the same individual may be a bully in one circumstance and a victim in another. He lacks insight into the ways in which his own behavior could be bullying or victimizing others.

* * *

Miles logged on to his laptop. It was showing activity on a deserted deepweb forum that he had used three or four years ago. Maybe one of his Estonian rivals? Maybe an old Rising Tide ally? Maybe Julian Assange had finally responded to his request for an interview?

Maybe…a note from Skye?


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing! Feedback keeps me going!_

* * *

Coulson looked at the profile. It was good. It was useful. Writing it had clearly taken something out of Garner. Well, they'd made a deal and Coulson would keep his end of it. "I have a phone number for Ward," he said. "Or, for some kind of anonymous switchboard that reaches him. Might not still be active. I don't know. You really think he'll negotiate with me?"

"Not with you," said Garner. "He hates you. You're a 'bully' in his mind. He's very adolescent, very immature. You're a father figure to him – not perfect and therefore terrible."

"You want Skye to do it?"

"You'll notice I didn't write a lot about Skye in the profile. That's because I honestly don't know. He was definitely fixated on her, but then he transferred his affections to ex-Agent Palamas. So where does that leave Skye? I can't imagine that he can really have a healthy relationship with an ex. He still loves her, he hates her, or both."

Coulson nodded. He _had_ noticed Skye's relative absence in the profile. "You want someone unknown to him, then?"

"That's a possibility," said Garner, "but if you think he's up to it, I did have someone in mind."

* * *

May gestured for Skye to position herself on the other side of the door frame. She drew her weapon. Skye did the same – her powers were developing, but she still didn't have sufficiently consistent control to justify using them in a crowded hotel, at least not as first line of attack. Mack was guarding the corridor.

May made eye contact with Skye and nodded. Skye grabbed the scanner from her belt and ran it over the electronic door lock. Who needs keys when you have a card spoofer you got from a super-sketchy guy with a porn mustache? The lock clicked. May put up three fingers, then two, then one, then-

May kicked in the door, Skye right behind her, both of them ready to see an end to this madness, to take down the figure their infrared imaging told them was lounging on the bed.

And…he was flabby, not fat per se, but certainly not toned. He had strawberry blond hair and light green eyes. He wasn't Ward. He wasn't anyone on their list. He was, however, wearing only a towel, watching the World Series of Poker, and starting in on what was – judging by the empty cans around him – his seventeenth can of beer.

"I don't have any weapons," said the man. He belched. "This lady paid me to wait in this room and do the stuff on that paper." He pointed to the bedside table.

May snatched up the instruction sheet. It listed specific times to make phone calls and to run internet searches, the breadcrumbs that had led them to Orlando in the first place. Skye was rummaging through the man's backpack. She leaned in close to May and talked out of the corner of her mouth. "He's legit homeless. He's probably got no idea what's going on."

May sighed. She was pissed and had been ready to take down Grant Ward. Now she didn't even get to arrest anyone. "Did the woman say anything else?"

"She said that Oaxaca is lovely this time of year. And then she said I should tell you that this isn't _Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego_." The man shrugged. "Sorry, Ma'am. I can still stay here until check-out, right?"

* * *

A cell phone was ringing. Judging by the rhythm, it was number six, the blue one. No, wait, the blue one with the X on it. Ward wondered why he had two blue ones. That was stupid. He held out the correct phone and looked at the caller ID. It was a row of 5's. He tried to remember who had the number to this particular phone. Was it his informant in South East Asia? Or did she call the white phone? Was it his accountant? Maybe he should start writing this stuff down. He indulged in a yawn before flipping the phone open.

"Hello," he said, giving no information away.

"H-hello?" said the caller.

Ward recognized the voice right away. "Fitz?" What the hell was Fitz calling about? Were they somehow tracing this? Ward looked over at his laptop to make sure that the system of relays was still working - according to his software, it was.

"Ward," said Fitz, "we're, um, well, I think you know, right? You can't just go around killing people and expect that we're not going to-"

"You're saying SHIELD is after me? I already knew that." Ward affected a bored, confident tone.

"No, I-I knew you knew that, I just…I just…"

"It's good to hear from you, Fitz." Ward's voice was softer, almost sincere.

There was a beat of silence.

"Donnie…he scared me," said Fitz. "Not, not because of his weather machine or his powers. Because I was lonely too when I was that age. I could have been like him, if I hadn't met Simmons."

"O-kay?" Ward wasn't sure where Fitz was going with this. He considered hanging up, but decided that hearing him out, having more information, had at least the possibility of benefit.

"You said…you said you were alone and that's why you had to follow, um…um…G-Garrett." Fitz gulped audibly. "I was alone and I found Simmons. You were alone and you found Garrett."

"How are things with you and Simmons?"

"No, no, that's not-" Another audible swallow. "You're working with people. One of them, he's young and I was thinking it was the same sort of-"

"What's the same?" Ward's voice got harder, more dangerous. "Are you comparing me to Garrett?" he asked, in a tone which made very clear that 'no' was the only acceptable response.

Fitz's breathing was loud and irregular. "I wasn't…" Ward could almost see the scientist's face contorting. "I was! You hurt me! I have dreams about drowning now. All the time. So don't pretend that you and he are totally different. I still can't…I'm not the same." There was a puff of air into the phone. "If what you said was true, that he made you do those things, then I wish you'd never met Garrett."

There was a curious knot in Ward's voice. "I'm helping him. The boy. I'm not using him. I'm helping him." The knot unbound itself. "Do you know where he was living when I found him? Do you know what his life was like? They were using him for _currency._ They were going to leave him to _rot_ in a _cell_ for something he did when he was _eleven_ , for trying to protect his mother when no one else would. I'm not letting him go back to that place."

"We-" Here, Fitz stumbled, because he obviously didn't know what plans SHIELD had for the boy. "We wouldn't let him get hurt either."

"Right," said Ward, "because SHIELD takes care of their own. Like they did for Kara. Like the way SHIELD sold her out to Hydra, let her get tortured, left her there, never tried to rescue her, used her as a trick, as a fucking pawn so she'd die in my arms. That's the way SHIELD treats its own agents. I didn't do anything to you that you guys don't do to yourselves."

"When you were on the BUS, before it got blown up, you said you missed the way things were," said Fitz. "Sometimes I miss it too."

Ward hung up the phone.

* * *

May, Skye, and Mack followed more false leads, four in total. It was tedious, miserable work, knowing that they were being toyed with, but unable to risk letting a real lead go. May tried not to take her frustration out on her fellow agents, but she knew it came through. She was short with Skye in their sparring, accusing her of slacking off on her physical training, using her powers as a crutch. She held Mack's almost-resignation over him, criticizing him for not being fully committed.

She saw the two of them whispering, probably talking about how unreasonable she was being. That was fine. This was a role she was used to playing.

She knew Andrew thought she was embarrassed to talk about her sex partner with her ex-husband, that he was doing her a favor by letting her write her response so she didn't have to look him in the eye. And, she supposed, having that conversation with him face-to-face would have been extremely uncomfortable. She would have done it if the job required, of course, but… No, her reluctance to talk about her…not relationship…fling? tryst? full-contact sparring? whatever…with Ward wasn't about a general bashfulness on the subject of sex, or lingering attachment to her ex-husband, or even an overall preference for keeping quiet.

It was guilt, pure and simple. It had been her job to guard Coulson and the rest of the team. Instead of being fully alert to all possible threats, she'd slept with one of them. It had clouded her judgment. She had missed the signs. She had failed Coulson, had let the team down. It didn't matter that none of the others thought of it that way. She knew.

"That was Coulson," said Skye, hanging up her phone. "It looks like someone tried to access one of Ward's old storage lockers in Camden, New Jersey."

"All right," said May. She chucked the remnants of her lunch in the trash. "Wheels up in ten."


	6. Chapter 6

_This chapter contains some possibly upsetting scenes between Ward and Curtis that go a bit beyond the "T" rating. If you'd prefer to just read a summary, one is provided at the end of the chapter._

* * *

"I can't believe you have an office in a hospital," said Curtis.

"Would you think to look for me in a hospital?" asked Ward, cocking an eyebrow.

"No."

"Well, that's why."

"Yeah, but you've got a lot of offices. And storage lockers. And that one houseboat. Don't they all cost money?"

Ward began moving old medical books off of the third shelf. "What would you think if I told you that photography can be a very profitable hobby?"

Curtis furrowed his brow as he considered the question. "You could…sell your photos to a magazine?"

"Didn't you hear, print is dead?" The third shelf was now empty of books. Ward lifted the plank off of its supports and set it aside. "You know," said Ward, "there are a lot of people, people who own offices and houseboats and all kinds of things, who have bad habits. Maybe they're having affairs. Maybe they do drugs or buy escorts. Maybe they have a fetish, something sick. Those kinds of photographs are worth a lot."

"Wow," said Curtis, with clear admiration. "You're blackmailing everybody. I should probably get a camera and practice."

"Not a bad idea." Ward felt along the wall behind the shelf, tapping it lightly. "Can't blackmail people with blurry pictures." He found the correct spot and pressed in. The 'wall' seemed to disappear, revealing a small cubbyhole. There were wads of cash and passports inside, along with a collapsible baton and a gunmetal grey box. Ward picked up the baton and smiled nostalgically. He tossed it to Curtis. "That's a nice model. Go nuts."

"Thanks." Curtis turned the baton over in his hands, playing around with the extension mechanism. He smiled, clearly pleased with his gift.

"Good boy," said Ward. He tucked the box into his shirt before closing up his hidden stash.

Curtis looked at the spot on the wall where the box used to be, obviously curious, but he didn't ask. Instead, he just kept extending and retracting the baton. He _should_ be asking, Ward realized. Anyone would want to know what was so important that it was stored in a secret safe in a hospital wall. The thought was uncomfortable, and so Ward chose not to think it, chose to make it an impossible thought. He removed the box from his shirt and set it on the desk. He pressed his right ring finger (thumb was too obvious) against the seal. The box opened to reveal six vials of light blue liquid, almost purple.

"It's dendrotoxin," said Ward. "Can be used for making non-lethal weapons. Also useful in kidnapping."

* * *

Ward put a can of Fresca down on the table. "I can't believe the grocery store carries these. Grapefruit soda. It's disgusting."

"S'my favorite," said Curtis. "Thanks." He picked up an edge piece and inspected it, trying to figure out what it connected with. "I got pretty good at jigsaw puzzles."

Ward sat down on the other side of the table. He idly flipped pieces picture side up. It wouldn't matter. They were leaving in the morning and there was no way the puzzle would be finished by then. "Do you ever think about what you'll do when we've all found closure?"

"Yeah, I'll work for you, doing missions and stuff."

"What if I retire?"

"You've still got enemies. I'll stay on as your bodyguard."

"Do you ever think about a regular job? You could grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer or something."

"I murdered my step-dad. People like me don't get to be doctors or lawyers."

"Maybe not. But you could be work in a factory, be a machinist. Maybe do landscaping."

"I don't think so," said Curtis, matching three pieces that all had a bit of a wagon. "Unless you want me to."

Strike one, thought Ward, though he gave no sign.

* * *

They traveled to Philadelphia, where they found a man who had worked for internal affairs for the police, who had exonerated the police officers who detained Nevaeh Little. He did not apologize or repent. He died an ugly death.

* * *

"Soames is giving me lip," said Ward. "She wants us to go to Portland right off. She needs to learn who's in charge around here."

Curtis nodded. "Damn straight." He was practicing with his weapon, taking it apart and putting it back together.

"Come on," said Ward, his right hand in a fist, his left hand running over the knuckles. "You can learn how to make a woman respect your authority." _I_ know _you have an opinion on this subject, Curtis._

Curtis put down his rifle sight. "Okay," he said, perfectly eager, as if Ward had just offered to take him out to the movies.

Ward shook his head. "No, never mind. You should keep practicing."

Strike two.

* * *

They crossed into Canada and drove west. The blue phone rang again. And again. And again. Ward considered smashing it.

* * *

Ward twisted off the cap on his beer. "You want one?" he asked, sitting down next to Curtis on the sofa. _Wheel of Fortune_ was playing on the TV.

"Nah," said Curtis. "I don't like the taste."

"No one likes the taste. You get used to it." Ward took a long, deep sip.

They watched the show for a few minutes. A contestant made a stupid guess and they both laughed at her.

"I haven't gotten any since Kara…" Ward trailed off at the end, unable to find a verb that was both true and tolerable.

"I thought you and Soames," said Curtis, making a vague and uninformative gesture that nonetheless conveyed his meaning.

"Soames?" Ward laughed. "Are you kidding? She'd cut my dick off."

"Yeah," agreed Curtis, as though that were obvious, even though it contradicted what he had just said. Clearly, he wasn't entirely well-informed on the subject of lesbians.

Ward extended his arm so it reached behind Curtis's head. Not touching, but not a platonic gesture. "I want to fuck you," he said softly, eyes glued to the television. He chose his words carefully. 'I want to', not 'I will'.

Something changed in Curtis in that moment, but something else did not. "I thought," said the boy softly, "you didn't like men."

"I don't," said Ward. "You're not a man. You're a boy. Probably don't even have hair on your balls." _Come on_ , thought Ward, _fight. Get angry. Don't accept this._

"A little," said Curtis, almost too softly to be heard. "I have a little hair."

Ward ignored this protest. It was too puny to count for much. "Well, let's go then." Ward stood up and headed for the stairs, praying Curtis wouldn't follow. But then, there was the sound of footsteps behind him, slower and more hesitant than Curtis's usual walk, but still... When Ward got to the master bedroom, he took off his belt and his gun, setting both on the floor so they would be closer to Curtis than to him.

 _Take the gun_. Ward's thoughts were so loud he could almost hear them. _I'm not Garrett. You can make your own choices. I'm not hurting you. Take the gun._

But Curtis sat down on the corner of the bed, his legs linked together at the ankles, feet not quite touching the floor. His head was pointed down and to the left. His eyes were fixated on nothing.

"It's probably going to hurt," said Ward. "I'm pretty big." There was no trace of boasting in his voice. _Fight me! You're my brother, not my slave!_

Curtis didn't answer. He just started untying his shoes. He looked…Ward couldn't quite recognize the emotion. Sad, maybe, but an empty, resigned kind of sad. Hollow. He looked hollow. Had Ward done this to him? No, he had always treated Curtis well, had never beaten him or threatened him or left him alone for months in the wilderness. "What is wrong with you?" whispered Ward. "Why are you so weak?"

"I don't know what you want me to do," said Curtis. There was a vacantness to his voice, as if it should have echoed. Hollow. He sounded hollow.

Strike three.

"Go downstairs and watch your show," said Ward, a tiny, noisy breath between each word. "Go!" Curtis shuffled out of the room without a sound, leaving Ward to sink alone to the floor, his stomach hot and twisted. He thought many difficult thoughts. He pulled out the blue phone.

* * *

" _Dry" summary: Disturbed by Fitz's phone call, Ward tests Curtis to determine if he will blindly follow him, the way Ward blindly followed Garrett. Curtis fails these tests by saying he will serve Ward for the rest of his life, readily agreeing to beat a woman the way his mother was beaten, and failing to resist when Ward demanded sex. (Note that Ward did not actually beat a woman or molest Curtis.) Ward is so troubled by Curtis's behavior that he calls Fitz. The family also murders someone who harmed Nevaeh._


	7. Chapter 7

This is how Phil Coulson begins his day.

He wakes up and looks at the tablet he keeps by his bedside, to see if any important events have transpired since he went to sleep. He checks his schedule. He's supposed to meet FitzSimmons in the lab at 8:00 for some nerve conductance tests. He knows they're working on some kind of prosthetic for him, which makes him uncomfortable, but as long as he doesn't have to look at the prototype, he's willing to play along for now. He rolls out of bed. He used to sleep in pajamas, but clothes are a challenge these days, especially when he has to get up in the middle of the night to relieve himself, so for now he just wears his boxers to bed. He takes those off and steps into the shower – a private washroom is one of the few privileges of command that he indulges in.

Showering with one hand isn't much different from showering with two, though there's one spot on his back that's damn near impossible to reach. He once spent about ten minutes trying to hold a shampoo bottle in his teeth while he dispensed some into his hand before realizing that it would be simpler to just pour the shampoo directly onto his head. That sort of annoying trial-and-error seemed to stretch on forever, until one day, May walked into his office, dropped a copy of _Rehabilitative and Adaptive Therapy Guide for Upper Extremity Amputees_ on his desk, turned around, and walked back out. He sits to wash his feet, just the way the guidebook recommends.

He towels off and brushes his teeth. This requires some minor adjustments. He had to throw out his nicely contoured toothbrush in favor of a plain, flat-handled model, one that wouldn't roll around while he applied toothpaste to it. He's a little messier than he used to be, but he can manage. There was a time when he liked to shave with a straight razor. Those days are over if he doesn't want to end up cutting his face to ribbons. The electric razor is faster anyway.

Then he dresses. This part is difficult, even if he is only missing one hand, even if he still has his dominant one. He puts on a fresh pair of boxers – he has given up on briefs. Undershirts are difficult as well, even when he follows the guidebook's instructions. He is patient with himself. While he tries, he asks his tablet to begin reading him the morning's briefing. Skye has modified his computers for one-handed operation, but that's still slow, so she set up a voice-recognition system to tide him over until he gets up to speed. Once he finally gets his undershirt on, he moves to his button-down. There was a time when he thought he'd have to give up Oxfords entirely, but he now has a tool to speed this along, a gift from Morse, whose late grandfather had lost motor function following a stroke. The tool allows him to manipulate small buttons with only one hand. He has become quite proficient with it.

Pants are still slow. A belt requires rolling around on the bed in a frankly undignified fashion. He has been loosening and re-using the same tie for almost two weeks. Socks are manageable. Shoes themselves aren't so bad, but regular laces are frankly impossible. It was Hunter, of all people, who gave him a pair of elastic laces with pressure ties, saying, "Idaho used to wear ones like this. He liked 'em because whenever he was hungover – which was always; guy had a problem – his hands would shake too much to tie his shoes the normal way. Not exactly your issue but same idea, right?"

His morning routine takes longer now, but it's still quick enough that he has time to look in on the garage, where Mack has finally earned the opportunity to work on Lola. He's modifying the controls so they can be operated with one hand.

It would be unfair to call Phil Coulson a lucky man because he has earned the friendship and devotion that he's been shown. Still, he catches a glance at himself in the mirror, looking just as put-together as he did before that day on the carrier, and he feels like his team is a gift.

* * *

This is how Grant Ward begins his day.

He wakes up earlier than Coulson. He has to exercise to maintain his strength. Joseph is a morning person and Ward takes advantage of this to build their connection. Joseph can't do the same exercises as Ward, of course, but he follows a parallel routine. They don't talk much. Ward gives Joseph pointers on his form; Joseph nods or grunts in response. Joseph is a quiet man by nature, but ever since they destroyed the school, he's been uniquely focused. Before they move on, Ward sits next to the man and tells him what will happen today. Joseph objects – this is predictable – but he accepts Ward's decision.

Soames hates mornings. She's still dozing, rifle by her side. She wants an AK-47 badly and Ward wants to give her one – he's a very generous man in a certain sense. They're not too hard to acquire if you know where to look and Ward most definitely knows. He mentally makes a note to meet up with his biker-minions in the next city and send them out with a shopping list. She won't care one way or the other about today's plans, so he lets her sleep.

Ward checks in on Miles, mostly to make sure he hasn't run away in the night. He knows Miles isn't as committed as the others and if he's honest, he knows they still feel some rivalry over Skye. But Ward isn't honest, not with himself and not with anyone else. So he watches Miles type away at his message boards and his deepweb contacts. Miles never went to bed last night – he sleeps exclusively during the day like some kind of…really shitty vampire. (Neither objectivity nor poetry are Ward's strengths.)

Curtis and Nevaeh are watching a Spanish-language television program, playing some kind of game in which Curtis translates Spanish to English before Nevaeh translates English to American Sign. This is either a triumph of multiculturalism or a complete waste of time. Ward suspects the latter, but he lets them have their fun for now. They're young and stupid.

Ward strips and gets into the shower. When Grant was seventeen, Garrett advised him, "A lot of men have been brought low because they stopped thinking with their brains and started thinking with their dicks. Don't be one of them. Take care of yourself as often as you're able and your dick won't have any energy left to run the show." Whatever else Garrett may have been, he wasn't an idiot. It's good advice and Ward follows it whenever feasible. (He didn't jerk off while he was in SHIELD custody – he was no exhibitionist – and god, he had felt the difference in his focus.) So he adds a few extra minutes onto his shower and ensures clear thought for the rest of the day.

He doesn't bother shaving. He shaved yesterday and he likes the way he feels with stubble. When no one's looking, he likes to touch his face. He's sure there's some kind of deep and meaningful reason for this, but he has no idea what it is. All he knows is that today is going to be an unpleasant day and he'll take comfort where he can get it.

He dresses. He brushes his teeth. He puts on all the weapons that he takes off to sleep at night.

And then he talks to Curtis. He says some things. He leaves many things out. He picks up a syringe that he's prepared.

* * *

"Sir? Sir!" Fitz is standing in the doorway of the director's office. "I just got a message from Ward, sir. It's coordinates where he says we can find…" Fitz trailed off as if unsure what to make of his own words. "Where he says we can find the boy."


	8. Chapter 8

_ASL is in gloss again. As before, Nevaeh's ASL grammar should be correct. Ward's is incorrect because he's just learning._

 _Also, Israeli bandages is a brand name, not a weird stereotype._

* * *

Nevaeh twisted the ends of the wires together. She looked back at Ward. "PUNISHMENT?" she asked.

"NO."

"CURTIS, NOW, YOU DISLIKE HIM?"

"NO."

"S-H-I-E-L-D, THEY FORCE YOU?"

"NO."

Nevaeh stopped working on the generator. "WHY? HE GO WHY?"

Ward shut his eyes and took a long slow breath. When he opened them again, he signed, "HOW SIGN CREATE-DEATH?"

"MURDER, KILL." Nevaeh demonstrated two options. The first looked like stabbing. The second was more abstract and had a K-handshape in it.

Ward nodded. "I DOG, NO, MY DOG. NOW. TODAY. I NO KILL MY DOG TODAY."

Nevaeh pursed her lips as if she were about to speak, though she had no intention of doing so. She often had trouble understanding Grant and his motivations for reasons that had nothing to do with their language barrier. He understood her so well. He was the first person to really understand her anger over her brother's death, the way it hit in swells and surges, the way it wasn't just about a few shitty cops and an angry drifter, the way it was about race and capital-D Deafness. He was learning ASL for her. That was a sacrifice not even her parents had made – they had relied on a few scattered signs, writing, lipreading, asking her brother to translate, and most often just leaving her out of "non-essential" conversations. What he was doing right now didn't make sense to her, but he had earned her trust, so she turned back to the generator and resumed her work.

* * *

"Should we give him something in exchange?" asked Morse. She was, to her credit, putting aside her personal feelings toward Ward to contribute to the discussion. "I'm not wild about negotiating, but if it's working we should continue."

"What would we give him?" asked Simmons. "He probably just wants weapons and we can't give him that. We'd be responsible if he went and killed someone with-"

"SHIELD has a policy, or at least it did," Bobbi nodded in Coulson's direction. "I don't know if you've changed it."

"I admit I haven't really considered it," said Coulson.

"What was the policy?" asked Simmons.

"Basically, it was that if you felt it was in the best interests of the mission, you were always free to trade humanitarian aid with the enemy – food, first aid, heating elements, anything that had no offensive or defensive role in combat."

"Ward's not holed up in a bunker. He has access to food," said Coulson.

Bobbi shrugged with one shoulder. "Medical supplies. Maybe some blood typing kits, Israeli bandages, that sort of thing." She paused and with a clear air of resentment she added, "Pain killers."

"And what if he gets shot and he survives because we gave him those things? And what if he goes on to kill again?" asked Simmons. "Are we then responsible for his future crimes?"

Coulson looked back at Dr. Garner, who was standing in the corner of the room. "Andrew, your thoughts?"

"With the usual disclaimer that I'm not a mind reader, I don't think we should give him anything at all, not because I'm worried about what he would do with the resources – although the thought did cross my mind – but because I'm worried how he'll react if he's made to feel as though he _sold_ us the boy."

* * *

They landed in the North Dakota badlands, in a flat, barren stretch with scrub grasses and grey-brown rocks. There was a shack near the center of the field next to an abandoned radio tower. About forty yards away from the tower, they could see a human figure, lying still on the ground, hands and feet pressed awkwardly together, probably zip-tied. There was some kind of metal lattice or net over him. Pinning him to the ground?

"Are you getting these readings, Fitz?" Mack spoke into his com link.

"Yeah. There aren't any active power sources within range. I'm detecting some metals inside the cabin, probably an old stove or something." Fitz paused. "But there could be all sorts of things I'm not detecting. Plastic traps. Zircon caltrops. Lasers from-"

"Vests on," said May, cutting him off. If she was wearing one, it was thin and under her jacket, but Skye and Mack didn't question the order. This was Ward and therefore it was far more likely to be a trap than an actual hostage handoff.

"I've got a warm body on infrared imaging," said Skye. "It's not moving. Heart rate and breathing are low and steady. Probably asleep or unconscious." Between the visual and the vital sign readings, it looked like the kid had been hit with the night-night gun dendrotoxin or something like it.

"And there's no sign of another person in a five-mile radius?" asked May.

Mack shook his head. "He could be in a lead-lined box, but nothing on scanners."

"All right," said May, "weapons out. Skye, be ready to do what you need to do."

They walked slowly out of the quinjet, scanning the horizon in all directions. "It looks like the boy," said Mack, as they got close enough for a better visual. "He's not tangled in a net, he's just wrapped in…it looks like chicken wire with window screen material on top."

"That's funny," said Fitz, "that almost sounds like a Faraday c-" Suddenly everything made sense. "LAY FLAT ON THE GROUND!" he yelled. "IT'S A FARADAY CAGE AND-"

A hum rose from silence as the generator in the shack buzzed to life. The three agents heeded Fitz's advice only moments before a bolt of lightning spit out from the radio tower in search of the tallest object. It split across two scrub pines. The heat was unbearable and Skye had to force herself not to jump up and away from the ground. Another bolt hit and another. Again and again. By staying flat, they were avoiding the worse of the strikes, but they were still being injured and they had no idea how long Ward's makeshift lightning trap could last. Skye prepared herself and as soon as the next bolt finished, she flipped onto her back so she could see the tower. She raised her hands very slightly, trying to assume her normal power-use position without getting electrocuted. It wasn't hard to find the feelings in herself that brought out her powers. She was pissed. She was pissed at Ward for being a crazy murdering psychopath who led them to this field and set a fucking electric kill machine on them and god her thigh hurt it was probably a second degree burn and it was painful as fucking-

The radio tower collapsed.

"Good job," said May, standing up slowly. "Little faster next time."

Skye jumped to her feet all in one movement, favoring ripping the Band-aid off quickly over prolonged aches and burns.

Mack pushed himself slowly to his knees with a loud groan. Even horizontal, he was still a couple inches taller than May or Skye and he had obviously taken the brunt of the assault. "Really hate that guy."

Skye and May carried the frozen kid back to the quinjet while Mack walked slowly and stiffly behind them. Every few steps, he shook as if shuddering, muscles twitching with the residual electricity left in his system. Skye clipped the wire mesh with tin snips and patted the boy down, checking for further traps. She pulled a sealed white envelope out of the boy's pants pocket. "It's a note."

* * *

"I don't see why I have to do this," said Hunter, even though he understood the necessity just fine. May and company were bringing in one of Ward's murder buddies. The last time one of Ward's brainwashed supplicants was left on their base, she ended up killing a guard, escaping, and torturing Bobbi. So their captive certainly had to be in lockup, at least to begin with. But the kid was thirteen and Hunter was personally glad that he wasn't held fully responsible for some of the decisions he'd made at that age. So they were making his cell a bit less sterile and a bit more humane.

"Because you have the mentality of a thirteen-year-old," answered Bobbi. She picked up a foldable screen.

"Don't lift that," said Hunter. "Let me get the heavy stuff." She hadn't made a sound when she hefted the screen, but she didn't have to. She was weeks away from getting cleared by the physical therapist for normal activity, let alone putting stress on her shoulder.

"It's light." She hoisted it up with her uninjured arm before setting it next to the cot. It was almost paper-thin, but opaque. The kid could move it around to have a little privacy while he was showering or changing clothes. She scanned the stack of magazines and toys Hunter had selected from whatever miscellany could be found lying around the base. "A _Spirograph_? Do kids even play with that anymore?"

"They do if they know what's good for them." As far as Hunter was concerned _Spirograph_ was the most amazing toy ever made and no one could tell him differently.

"Porn? On paper?" Bobbi held the magazine by one corner, looking for all the world like she was afraid it was going to start dripping.

"Okay, first of all, it's not porn, it's just the swimsuit edition."

"Right," said Bobbi nodding, "that's what you told me about those pictures of-"

"You shouldn't have been going through my sock drawer!"

"I lost my penknife and I was going to borrow yours!"

"Why do you even have a penknife?! Can't you just use your fangs to-"

"Sorry to interrupt," said Dr. Garner, not looking sorry at all, "but they'll be landing in fifteen minutes and I need to make sure this place is secure."

Bobbi shook off the argument first. "There's nothing sharp or made of glass. You said plastic was okay. He can definitely break some of this stuff, but it shouldn't be that sharp. He's got a TV and a _Playstation_ , but they're behind plexiglass. He's only got access to the controller."

"Does it have batteries?"

"No."

"Good." Garner nodded. "This looks excellent. Thank you." He tipped his head toward Hunter. "You two are free to finish your conversation elsewhere if you'd like." Garner was unsure whether they had just reopened a bitter, unresolvable conflict or they were about to make out. Either way, he didn't want to interfere any more than was necessary. The two agents walked off, resuming their bickering. Garner sat down on the cot, looking at the boundaries of the cell. It was smallish, but certainly bigger than his freshman dorm room, bigger than anything the boy would have had in a penitentiary. And they would let him move around the base with supervision, once basic safety had been established. Assuming he could be rehabilitated. Assuming Andrew Garner had made the right decision.

* * *

Coulson was waiting in the hangar when the quinjet landed. May had filled in him in on the situation via coms while still in the air so he knew what to expect: a team that was weary from following false leads, a team which was now covered in minor but painful injuries, and in their custody, a Hispanic boy, small for his age, with no signs of serious injury from his ordeal.

The ramp lowered. The sedative must have worn off mid-flight, because the boy was walking, flanked by May and Skye. Mack followed behind them, service weapon in hand.

Curtis tipped his head to one side, as if to get a good look at his surroundings. He turned his gaze slowly, taking in details. When his eyes met Coulson's, he stopped. "I know you," said Curtis. "I know who you are. And I want you to know that I will never, ever forgive you."


	9. Chapter 9

_There is medicine in his pocket. Make sure he takes it daily. He doesn't know why._

 _If you hurt him, you know what I will do._

 _Be better than I think you are._

 _-GW_

"What was the medicine?" asked Coulson, passing the handwritten note on to May.

"The bottle said Strib- Striblid? No, Stribild," said Skye. "Simmons says the pills match the shape and color for that name, but she'll need a bit longer to check the chemical composition."

"What is it for?" Coulson has beginning to feel the enormous responsibility he had taken on. At least five years until the boy reached the age of majority.

May and Skye exchanged glances and shrugs. It wasn't a familiar antibiotic or sedative or analgesic.

"It's for HIV," said Mack. "Post-exposure prophylaxis or maintenance meds." He did not explain how he knew this and the others did not ask.

'Maybe not such a long responsibility,' thought Coulson, and he hated himself for it.

* * *

Curtis carefully inventoried every object in his cell. He palpated the length and breadth of his mattress, searching for sensors or hidden tools – there was a zipper, but that didn't really count. He paged through the magazines. There could still be subtle codes left in there, but there weren't any obvious messages. There was a big box of nutrition bars. He should probably ration them, but he didn't know how long he was expected to survive on them. There were clothes that looked sort of like hospital scrubs in a few different sizes. It didn't really matter since the shirts were shapeless and the pants had elastic waistbands. No shoes, but non-stick slipper socks. There were no obvious weapons, but Curtis had been trained by Grant Ward, so he knew that anything could be a weapon if he wanted it to be.

There were cameras, of course. And even though the wall looked white to him, Curtis was sure that the SHIELD agents could see into his cell. Two years of incarceration had left him utterly indifferent to personal modesty. At least, he thought so, but then he was awfully glad to arrange the privacy screen around the toilet and showerhead which popped out of the walls. Finished with his hygiene tasks and dressed in the best-fitting of the provided clothes, Curtis sat down on his cot to pray.

There was a beep and the white wall fell away. Curtis was prepared for this, although he hadn't expected it to be so soon. He leapt up and ran for the exit only to feel his face smack into an invisible barrier.

There was a low, gentle laugh. "I'm sorry," said the man. "I should've warned you about the wall. I'd like to see you out and moving around the base eventually, but for now…" He gestured to a panel platform sticking up from the floor on his side of the barrier. "My name is Dr. Andrew Garner."

"Do you work for Phil Coulson?"

"I- yes. I'm not a SHIELD agent, but I am essentially a contractor." It was better to be overly honest in these first few meetings. "I understand you're not his biggest fan."

"You kidnapped a minor," said Curtis, choosing to avoid the topic of Director Coulson for the time being. "That's got to be a serious crime."

"I realize that you're not going to believe me, but I can tell you that we did not take you against Mr. Ward's will."

"You're right. I don't believe you."

* * *

" _You may be captured one day. You may be interrogated." Grant signed FUTURE-THEY ASK YOU FORCE CREATE YOU SAY as he spoke. He knew he didn't have all the signs to explain this and that Nevaeh would have to tolerate a little lipreading in addition to his pidgin sign._

" _SHIELD won't use torture per se, but they will use persuasion." SHIELD NO YOU KILL MAKE YOU SICK NO. SHIELD NICE TALK YOU. "Other groups might be crueler." NOT SHIELD MAYBE HURT ASK._

" _You've probably seen movies where the hero says, 'I'll never talk'. That's stupid. Go ahead and talk. Just watch what you say. Ask questions. Mix truth and lies." FIVE-OF-YOU NOT NO-SAY. FIVE-OF-YOU ASK SAY RIGHT SAY WRONG BLEND. "People are bad at being random, so here's the trick: Think of a long word or a short sentence." YOU THINK FINGERSPELLING. "Whenever they ask you a question, think of the next letter. If it's a consonant, tell the truth. If it's a vowel, lie." B, C, D, F, AND SAME YOU SAY RIGHT. A, E, AND SAME YOU SAY WRONG._

 _Ward looked at each of them slowly. He spoke and signed simultaneously. He had practiced this. "If you are captured, it's your job to stay strong. Survive."_

* * *

"I'd like to ask you some questions," said Dr. Garner.

 _This is it_ , thought Curtis. _This is my first interrogation_. He had to think of a word. He had to do this right. Grant was relying on him. 'Spelling' was the first word that came to mind. Grant always told them it was more important to be quick than creative.

"I understand that you were very close with Mr. Ward. Tell me what's so great about him." Garner managed to say the second sentence without a trace of sarcasm, sounding for all the world as though he were genuinely curious.

 _S_. Tell the truth. Keep it short and simple. "He raised me from perdition."

Garner pursed his lips as he considered the odd phrasing. "What does 'perdition' mean to you?"

 _P._ "It's like hell. I used to be a sinner in hell. He pulled me out."

"What was your first impression of Mr. Ward?"

 _E._ "I thought he was..." _Quick, think of a lie._ Not powerful, not terrifying, not godlike, not beautiful, not- "weak. I thought he was weak. I mean, he had muscles, sure, but most guys like are just showing off. Gun cuts anybody down to size."

Garner looked skeptical, but he didn't question the response. "What did you and Mr. Ward do after you left with him?"

 _L._ "We stole a car and drove north. You can't really hotwire cars anymore. That's just in movies. But you can steal them if you know how, especially if you have the right tools."

"Mr. Ward sounds like a resourceful man. I imagine he taught you a lot."

That wasn't a question, so Curtis said nothing.

"I'm going to bet that he took you someplace interesting, someplace that made you feel special." Garner knew that Ward probably seemed near-omnipotent to his followers, especially to a child. Professional experience had taught him that he could project a sense of power by making a few obvious predictions. "Where did he take you?"

 _L._ Curtis was supposed to tell the truth, but that memory was private. He didn't want to share it with this man. "We went to the beach," he said finally, leaving out all the important details.

"The beach. I see."

Curtis added no further information.

"Where were the others?"

 _I_. "It was just me and Miles back then. Grant didn't recruit the others until later. Miles was doing a mission and he met up with us in Baltimore."

Dr. Garner knew that didn't fit the data in a number of ways. Miles disappeared from detention in Hong Kong _after_ Nevaeh Little dropped out of university. And based on what Skye said, Miles was the most squeamish about Ward's plans. If Ward was smart (unfortunately, all data suggested that he was), he wouldn't send his least loyal subject to another city alone. Dr. Garner leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. "Curtis, if you don't want to answer me, just say so, but I would very much prefer if you didn't lie."

 _N._ "I'd very much prefer if you choked on a dick," answered Curtis, speaking naught but the truth.

Garner laughed. He didn't seem angry. "Now you've settled in, is there anything you need?"

 _G._ "I need to talk to Grant."

* * *

" _Have you ever seen the ocean?" asked Grant, in between bites of a fast-food burrito._

" _Sure," said Curtis. "Those movies where they show you dolphins and stuff." He was wary of disappointing this muscular, magical man who had appeared in his life like a genie from a bottle._

" _I meant in real life."_

 _Curtis tipped his head like a puppy, as if the idea of a real ocean had never occurred to him. "Umm…"_

" _That's a no, then," said Grant, shifting into the right lane. "I grew up near the ocean, saw it all the time, so I never got what the big deal was." He ate the last bite of his burrito and took the exit ramp. "What do you think the ocean is good for?"_

 _This was much worse than a school quiz because Curtis wasn't sure that there_ was _a right answer. It was an ecosystem – that was important, wasn't it? – but he doubted that Grant had broken him out of prison to discuss earth science. "Well," he said, hoping this was a response worthy of his freedom, "it's a good place to hide a body."_

 _Grant laughed. "Eh, it's not bad. You have to dump it pretty far offshore, or it will just wash up on the beach. And even further out, you have to watch out for the currents. But yeah, if you weigh it down correctly, a body can be lost in the bottom of the sea." He turned left down an unlit street._

 _They travelled in silence. Even though he was too excited to be hungry, Curtis ate a chicken soft taco. It was messy. He wished he had gotten a burrito like Grant. Then Curtis remembered that he was riding in a stolen car with a felon and he decided that a few pieces of shredded lettuce on the seats were no big deal in the grand scheme of things. Grant pulled off the side street onto a thin, marginally paved road. Curtis realized he should be paying more attention to his surroundings in case he had to escape or Grant sprung a pop quiz on him. The tiny street led them to a dead end and Grant parked the car._

" _Are you a serial killer?" asked Curtis._

 _Grant chuckled, getting out of the car. "I've been called that," he said, "but it's not how I see myself."_

 _Curtis followed him around the DEAD END signs, through thinning pines, over increasingly sandy soil. He didn't know where we he was going, but he knew that if he were a character in a movie, the audience would be shouting at him to make a run for it. He also knew that running would be futile. The man ahead of him on the path obviously knew this land, his long legs and black boots eating up terrain. He had weapons and he Curtis knew by instinct that this man knew how to use them. No, running would get him nowhere. And even if he did escape, where would he go?_

 _Grant pushed through the last wave of pines, holding the branches back as if he were holding the door open in a gallant gesture. Curtis stepped forward to see…a beach. A small one, but with everything a beach should have: foamy waves, gritty sand, and sea shells. And past those things, the ocean._

" _It's so big," whispered Curtis reverently, before he remembered that he was trying to impress Grant._

 _But Grant only smiled. He knelt down and removed his boots and socks. "You don't have to take off your shoes, but I'd recommend it."_

" _Are we going swimming?"_

" _No, far too cold for that." Still, Grant walked right to the edge of the shore and stood like a sentinel with his feet shoulder-width apart. As each wave washed over his feet, sand was shifted and deposited, burying them. He didn't move at all when struck by the waves. Then he did something even more bizarre: he unzipped and pissed into the surf. Shaking off and putting himself away, he said, "Imagine a piece of driftwood. It might think it wants to go one way or another, but it's really controlled by the currents. Or imagine billiard balls. They can't move on their own. They can only bounce." Grant looked back at Curtis. "What are people made of?"_

" _Cells?"_

" _And what are cells made of?"_

 _That wasn't a question Curtis had studied in school. "Chemicals?" he guessed._

" _Right," said Grant. "Chemicals are made of atoms and atoms are just billiard balls. Just driftwood. That's all people are, floating in an ocean of currents." He straightened himself and stared back at the sea._

" _Are you talking about free will?"_

" _I am. There's no such thing. People might say that_ they _would do something different if they'd been in your place, but they're not you, they haven't been floating in your currents. There's no way that_ you _could have done anything different than what you've done."_

 _Curtis understood this, sort of. The ocean was in charge. People had to embrace fate._

" _You asked if I was a serial killer," said Grant. He unearthed his feet from the sand and sat down on a boulder to don his shoes. "That means you think it's possible. But you still came with me. Why?"_

" _Because anything's better than that place."_

" _Not death."_

" _Maybe death."_

" _You don't really believe that, or you would have killed yourself."_

" _They take away anything you can use to do it."_

" _If you want to do it badly enough, you'll find a way." Grant reached out for his second boot and Curtis noticed the scars on his wrists for the first time. "So you knew that I could kill you and you see death as a risk. Why did you come with me?"_

" _Because…I wanted to make things change."_

" _Good boy," said Grant. "And now do you understand why I pissed into the ocean?"_

 _Curtis stood in silence for a full minute, organizing his thoughts and assigning them words. "Because," he said, "fuck fate."_


	10. Chapter 10

"The 084 was apparently an Inhuman," said May. "Her powers had something to do with pressure. When they emerged, she and her house imploded."

"And the woman is dead?" verified Coulson.

"Yes."

"And we have no idea what caused her powers to emerge?"

"No recent travel."

Coulson hung up the phone. This was the third Inhuman "accident" to show up on their radar. Just because dealing with Ward was top priority didn't mean they could ignore all their other responsibilities entirely. One survived to be indexed (a Haitian man who could see ultraviolet and x-ray frequencies), the second essentially committed suicide by police, and this third one apparently unintentionally killed herself. Skye was lucky, then, that she made it through her transformation without serious harm.

According to Skye, there was some kind of registry of pre-Inhumans (unawakened Inhumans? baseline descendants? Coulson wasn't sure of the proper term) in Afterlife that Jia Ying had guarded jealously. He also suspected that, given Hydra's obsession with gifted, they had some ideas about how to locate these people.

Coulson had no idea, however, how these people were transforming. Maybe some of the Inhumans who fled Afterlife took diviner crystals with them? This could very easily become a serious problem. He lifted his hands to rub his temples, but of course, the left hand wasn't there.

* * *

Miles tapped Joseph on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow. They were in an abandoned tenement and they knew better than to stray too far from the group into territory occupied by various homeless and junkies. Still, they were able to go down a filthy corridor into what had probably been a janitor's closet.

"What is it?" asked Joseph. "Are you sick?"

Miles shook his head. "Look," he said, "I just have to know what you think about all this."

"This building?" asked Joseph, for he was a rather literal man.

"No, I mean the things we've been doing. And we had a kid with us and now we don't. And we think SHIELD is evil but apparently we're giving the kid to them. And Ward is, man, he's scary. He _will_ kill us when he gets what he wants out of us. You know that, right? There's no happy ending."

"I didn't start a journey of revenge looking for a happy ending," said Joseph, for he was also an astute man.

"I don't want to die," whispered Miles, dropping his voice as if this were his most closely kept secret. "And I don't want to…keep killing people." Miles felt his face grow hot, turn away from Joseph. He recognized these as the signs of shame and he wondered how he had grown into someone who was ashamed to value human life.

"Revenge doesn't make you feel good," said Joseph. "It's just something that has to be done."

* * *

"His HIV test is negative," said Simmons. "Although I want to add that virology is not my area of expertise." She had been taking an increasingly medical role on the team, as per necessity, and she occasionally wondered if her fellow agents had forgotten that she was not, in fact, a medical doctor, but rather an exemplary biochemist with some credentials in emergency medicine.

"Why would Ward want him on drugs for a disease he doesn't have?" asked Coulson.

"Mack," whispered Hunter in a voice no quieter than anyone else's normal speaking tone, "you know this stuff. You explain it."

Mack turned only his head to glare at Hunter. "Stereotype much?"

"I'm not stereotyping," said Hunter. "Wasn't Tim positive?"

Mack ground his teeth together hard enough this his lip shook, but he turned away from Hunter and toward Coulson. In an overcontrolled voice, he said, "The test detects antibodies but they take a while to build up. If you test too early, you can get a false negative. The only way to be sure you don't have it is to take two tests, six months apart. But after you're exposed, even if you don't know if you have it, you can take the drugs to reduce the chances the infection will stick." He paused. "A negative test is a good sign, but he should keep taking the meds."

Mack's eyes shifted from side to side and a thick puff of air escaped his lips. "May I be dismissed, sir?"

* * *

Skye carried the tray into Vault D. It had chili, rice, tortilla chips, a carton of milk, a few cookies, napkins, and plastic utensils. It was the same food the SHIELD agents had eaten for dinner. It also had a plastic water cup and a pill. She reminded herself that she was going to see a kid who probably didn't even know what Ward was all about, who had been more Ward's prisoner than his collaborator.

The barrier was transparent. The boy was sitting on the floor, balancing checkers on their sides, obviously bored. He looked up, gaped at her, but said nothing.

Skye tapped the control panel and slid the tray into the cell. "I have to see you take the pill," she said. He looked the capsule over and complied.

"I know who you are," said the boy through a mouthful of chili.

"I'll bet you do," said Skye. She wanted nothing to do with Ward and his weird obsession with her. She could already feel her heart rate rising.

"He didn't say anything bad about you. He just said you have powers and you're stronger than you look, but you're nice."

"Nice," echoed Skye, saying the word as if it were fingernails on a chalkboard. "Nice." The second time she spoke more softly, with less of an edge, trying to force her mind to make separate categories for Grant-Ward-psychokiller and Curtis. "When you're done eating," she said, "I can set up your PlayStation in there so we can play _Katamari Damacy_."

The boy ate steadily and all but licked the plate. He obediently slid it through the slot that opened in the force field. Once Skye performed some miscellaneous computer magic, the theme song came on and they were busy controlling abstract balls of sundry objects.

" _Se habla Español?_ " asked Skye.

" _Sí_."

"Unfortunately, that's all the Spanish that I know. Oh, and I can ask where the bathroom is." Skye deliberately got her ball-of-stuff stuck in a corner to let Curtis catch up.

"Yeah, Grant says that arrogant American monolingualism is a relatively recent invention." This was the longest and most literate sentence Curtis had produced since arriving on the base.

"I'll bet he speaks Spanish. I've seen him speak a lot of languages."

"Yeah. And we were all learning to talk sign to Nevaeh but he was the best at it."

"It seems like it would take forever to learn sign language. Like, you can't make flashcards."

"We started in the woods. There wasn't anything else to do." Curtis's ball rolled across the finish line moments ahead of Skye's. He immediately queued up another round.

"In the woods?"

"Yeah, when he was finding us, he'd go get us one at a time and bring the person back to the woods. We had to learn to make shelters and hunt and fight and stuff. I got pretty good at fishing. Soames got bit by a snake but it wasn't poisonous."

"Snakes scare me," said Skye.

"If something scares you, either it's not important or you have to kill it."

"Is that what Ward told you?"

Curtis was silent for some time before he put down the controller and said, "I know you think I'm stupid." Before Skye could protest, he continued, "I know you think I just do whatever Grant says, like a robot. But that's not what it was like. He didn't tell me that I had to think that. He showed me why it was true. After Soames got bit, I started watching the ground for snakes and because I was watching the ground, I didn't see a coyote and that could've been much worse. So he showed me that either it's worth fighting all out or it's not. In between is a waste of time that makes you weak."

* * *

Bobbi Morse set two beers down on the ground next to the Jeep. She settled onto the concrete floor and tapped the space next to here. "Sit with me," she said. She waited a beat before adding, "I'm sorry about Hunter."

Mack sighed and sank to the ground next to her. "I thought when you two got divorced, you'd stop apologizing for him."

"It was a stupid thing to say," said Bobbi, "bringing up Tim like that."

"Yeah," said Mack. He took a sip of his beer. "Hey, should you be drinking that?" He eyed her bottle.

"A sip or two can't hurt," she said confidently. "Then you can have the rest." They sat in silence as Bobbi took one of her two allotted sips.

"A couple months ago," said Mack, "was the, uh, the anniversary of the Uprising. It wasn't like I expected us to celebrate that or anything, but I thought we might have a moment of silence or something. For the ones who…we lost a lot of good people that day." He gulped.

"How long had you and Tim been together?"

Mack exhaled, long and low. "It was…almost four years. We'd known each other a bit longer than that, but…"

"I can't imagine what it must have been like to lose him so suddenly." She hadn't seen it; she'd arrived moments too late, but even if she'd been there…

Mack swallowed and pressed his eyelids tightly shut. "We were so careful. He was positive and I'm not. We were so careful. He always said he couldn't bear it…if I died because of him." He was crying openly now, and making little effort to hide it.

That whole day was a terrible blur, but Bobbi knew that Mack and Tim had each tried to sacrifice themselves for the other and Tim had won the race to the bottom. It had been crass of Hunter to bring Tim up so casually. But still, it was odd the way they never talked about the dead. Mack was right - it was strange that they hadn't offered up some kind of memorial on the anniversary of the Uprising.

Bobbi took her second sip and rested her head on Mack's shoulder.

* * *

Ward knocked back another swig of scotch. Between genetics and life experience, he had astounding tolerance which had served him well on a variety of undercover operations. At the moment, it was a pain in the ass because he was going to need considerably more liquor than he had in his possession to get even the slightest bit drunk.

He felt…wrong, as if he were not a real person, but rather a picture of one.

The loss of Curtis was not the same as the death of Kara, but they both produced a trembling, plummeting agony. When Kara died, Grant could feel the insistent guilt prickling at the back of his mind, the knowledge that it was his finger on the trigger, the fact that he did it and therefore he could have not done it. This feeling was too much to bear. It threatened to crush him. There was no way to act it out or express it (that he knew of) and so there was no way to live with it. And thus, he took that thought, that feeling, and folded it up very neatly. He put it in a little cedar box so the moths wouldn't get it. He put chains around the box, locked it shut, and willed the key to never exist.

And now Curtis was gone because he had harmed the boy. Had he? Had he really? Was he like Garrett? Was this another thought that would need its own cedar box?

Grant was fairly certain Miles was conspiring against him. Or was he paranoid again?

Speaking of paranoia, Grant wondered where he could get his hands on some meth.

No, he wasn't going to do that. He was just going to drink his inadequate scotch and play checkers against himself.

* * *

 **Note:** _Mack's description of HIV testing and prophylaxis is generally correct, though a little out of date. There are different kinds of HIV tests, some of which can detect signs of infection within a few days. Post-exposure prophylaxis is effective but must be started_ _very_ _soon after exposure (1-72 hrs after exposure). Of course, it only reduces risk, not eliminates it. It's available in the emergency room, so remember that if you're ever potentially exposed._


	11. Chapter 11

Ward took off his sunglasses. The dim shadows of the church only minimally aggravated his hangover. He dipped his fingers in the basin of holy water and crossed himself, an act of proto-Catholic muscle memory. He waited until the last of the penitents in line had made their peace before kneeling down in the tiny confessional.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been…oh, probably almost twenty years since my last confession."

* * *

Curtis was born in El Paso. Coulson had missed that fact because the boy had been raised in and incarcerated in Alabama. Coulson felt like he was missing a lot of facts these days, being pulled in a million directions by the responsibilities of the directorship. He was used to a very hands-on approach, to knowing and managing his people directly. He used to _know_ exactly how much farther he could push someone, whether they could handle a particular assignment or not. Now, he got that information in reports from people whose judgment may or may not align with his own. Given his age, rank, and newfound disability, it was less prudent than ever for him to head out into the field unnecessarily.

He hated feeling a step behind.

He had an intuition, though. He was very good with gut feelings and he had one now. He took his phone off the receiver, set it down and dialed.

* * *

The priest had a warm voice. "It's not quite so formal, now, as it was twenty years ago," he said.

"The formality never bothered me," said Ward. "It was the rigidity. I hated church when I was a kid. All the rules. No exceptions." He shifted and said, "Honor thy father and mother," in a tone normally reserved for war criminals and pedophiles.

"You were raised in the church."

"A bit. I was baptized. I made my first communion. I never did the one…what's it called…like a Christian bar mitzvah."

"Confirmation?"

"Yeah, never did that one."

The priest nodded, though of course, Ward couldn't see him. "Are you here for the sacrament of reconciliation? Or would you prefer we just talk?"

"If it's not the ritual, can you be forced to testify under oath?"

The priest thought about this for a moment. He worked at a large semi-urban parish. He had a good relationship with the police. He helped them when he could and they in turn agreed not to push the boundaries of the privilege his religious liberty afforded him. And yet, this man was here for a reason. Finally, he said, "I keep private anything told to me in a spirit of reconciliation."

"Heh," said Ward, recognizing equivocation when he heard it. "It doesn't matter." He sighed. A moment passed, then he continued. "Can thoughts be sins? That never made sense to me when I was a kid. Lusting was a sin. Coveting was a sin. How can it be a sin if you don't do anything? How can a thought count against your soul?" His question bordered on eloquence. Ward had a pinch of artistry to him when his mood was right.

"Even secular law treats hate crimes differently from other crimes, or pre-meditated murder differently from impulsive murder. That would seem to be punishing people on the basis of their thoughts."

"But the act was committed. If the thought is there, but the action isn't, how can that be a sin?"

"I bel-" The priest stopped himself. He wasn't sure what sort of man he was speaking with. He knew that there were occasionally mentally ill people who were preoccupied with uncontrollable thoughts. He didn't have the training to handle those cases, but he knew enough to avoid making them worse. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

Ward let out a sort of half-laugh, a breath with a bit of noise. "Bothering me," he echoed. "That's not the word I would have chosen." He fell silent, but before he could be prompted, he started to speak again. "There are two people – a man and a woman – who wronged me in the most terrible way. It was the woman who actually did it, but the man led her there, made it possible, ordered her into the battle."

"What did they do to you?"

"They made me kill the woman I loved," said Ward, his voice devoid of expression.

A murder. Unless this was metaphorical, someone was murdered. The priest tried to control his shock. He had heard about people confessing this sort of thing, but had never experienced it himself. He asked a bland question. "This woman, was she family? Your girlfriend? Your wife?"

"My girlfriend, I suppose. We hadn't known each other long. But I loved her. And she loved me." His voice grew harsher. "And they tricked me. They didn't just kill her, no, they were crueler than that. They made me do it. I was just the weapon."

"You sound angry."

"I am."

* * *

"Director," said Dr. Garner, with a polite nod.

Coulson glanced down at the file on his desk. "I'd like an update on your profile of Ward. Based on new information. What else can you tell us about him?"

"He was apparently providing post-exposure HIV treatment without telling the boy why. Whether it's a misguided act or not, it's hard to imagine keeping that secret for any reason other than genuine concern."

"And the lightning trap?"

"Genuine concern for some people, murderous rage for others."

"You said in the original profile that you thought he was choosing followers primarily based on their experiences of injustice, rather than for their strategic value," said Coulson. "What if that were wrong?"

* * *

"I am angry," repeated Ward, "and how can that be a sin?"

"I don't know that it is," said the priest. "But the things we do with our anger-"

"I didn't do the thing!" snapped Ward. "I thought about it. I planned it. I started it. But I stopped. That's the important thing, right? That I stopped? I couldn't go through with it. Because I'm not evil. I'm not evil just for having some bad thoughts. It wasn't such a bad plan."

The priest was at a loss. He was having trouble following the man's story and he was starting to strongly suspect that he was hearing about some very serious criminal activity. He wished that he had more carefully considered his earlier words about the sanctity of the confessional.

"At first, I thought I would just kill them, the way they killed her. But that's not a fair trade. They didn't just kill her. They made _me_ do it. Can you imagine?" Ward slammed his palm against the wooden kneeler. "So I had to find someone they loved. And I did. Not someone the woman loves – I don't think she loves anyone – but the man, I was going to make him kill his-"

* * *

 _ **Fourteen Years Ago**_

 _May looked at the man slumped over against the bar and sighed. "I can't keep covering for you."_

" _Shhh," said Coulson. He groaned and waved an uncoordinated, indifferent hand in the general direction of the unsympathetic noises. "You don't have to cover for me. I'm pretty sure they already know where I am."_

" _Fine then," said May, pulling up a barstool next to Coulson's, "you're right. They know where you are and they know you're acting like a self-destructive teenager. I'm here to bring you back and clean up any messes you've made."_

" _I didn't spill any secrets sitting here getting wasted."_

" _And you've just been sitting here getting wasted?" May raised an eyebrow in a way that made clear she already knew the answer._

 _Coulson waved his hand dismissively again. "I'm allowed a little rebound. I'm not stupid enough to spill secrets while I do it."_

" _If it makes you feel any better, Barton's being disciplined."_

 _Coulson shook his head. "You know, that doesn't make me feel better. If Barton's what Laura wants," he began, but he never finished his sentence. He had dated Laura for eight or nine months and, if he was honest with himself, they had been merely good together, not great. But regardless of the circumstances, breakups were always shitty, and breaking up with a woman by catching her sleeping with your prized asset, well…he wasn't going to pretend that didn't sting._

" _I have no interest in wading into your personal life," said May, "but I would be more than happy to pin Barton's arms while you punch him in the stomach."_

 _Coulson smiled weakly. "I can always count on you."_

" _Only because you don't do this very often." May stood up, carefully mindful of the various bar-floor substances she would rather avoid. "Now pay your tab and let's get the hell out of El Paso."_

* * *

 **I'm thinking there are about 2-3 chapters remaining. Thanks for reading, please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

"Didn't your mum ever tell you that you shouldn't go swimming without a lifeguard?" Hunter leaned on the resistance floats rack.

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Don't you have actual work you should be doing?" The physical therapy pool was only four feet deep and she had to stretch her knee somewhere.

"Turns out, I get a paycheck whether I'm deployed or not, so I intend to plant my butt on the couch and relax. That's just good business sense."

"Fine, go do that." She made a shooing motion.

"It's way too early in your PT for you to be doing range of motion stuff," said Hunter. "You're planning on going after Ward, aren't you?"

Bobbi pressed her side against the wall of the pool and tried to raise her leg. She didn't particularly want an audience for this, but she wasn't going to let Hunter interfere. She found the point of greatest tolerable extension, held it for 15 seconds, and then released with an audible gasp.

"Bobbi, please. I get that you hate him. I hate him too. But if you go after him now, you're going to lose. And then I'll have to avenge your death, which sounds like an awful lot of effort when I could be catching up on _Strictly Come Dancing_."

"They're talking about putting pins in," said Bobbi. "The knee won't get back to the way it was."

"We'll make him pay for that," said Hunter. "And by 'we', I mean people who aren't recovering from massive physical trauma."

"Go away, Lance."

"You know, we could have some crazy upside-down sex in this pool."

"Go _away_."

* * *

Coulson watched through the monitor as Skye brought the boy his breakfast. She didn't have to do that. It was the sort of job that could easily be left to a technician.

Skye altered the density of the barrier so it was transparent. Curtis looked…bad. He wasn't crying, but it might have been better if he was. His lips were slightly parted, pressed forward from his face. His eyes were small and distant. He looked like empty paper in the shape of a boy.

"What's wrong?" asked Skye.

"I hate solitary," whispered Curtis.

"Well, the other prisoners," began Skye, "we can't-"

"It's for my own protection. I know. I've heard that before. And it's not like I have a better idea because I know you guys won't let me go. But I just really hate solitary. It's the worst thing." He said the last sentence with the steady sincerity of someone who has really considered and ranked all possible experiences.

Skye dematerialized a panel and pushed the food tray in. "I was arrested a few times," she said. "Never got put in solitary, but I know what it's like to be in a cell. I know it sucks." She rematerialized the panel. "But I'll come visit you as often as I can, okay? We can just hang out, play video games, whatever."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" asked Curtis. "You hate Grant."

"You're not Ward."

"I wish I was."

Skye obviously didn't know how to respond to that. She just sighed and changed the subject. She stayed, though, until he was done eating - as long as she could stay before she had to get back to her training.

Coulson ran into her as she was leaving Vault D. "I'll take that," he said as he reached for the tray. "May's looking for you."

"I'm not late!" yelped Skye. "I swear I'm not late!"

Coulson just smiled and shrugged as she ran down the corridor. When she turned the corner, he set the tray down, picked up the plastic spoon, and put it in a sterile collection bag. Then he took a fresh spoon, scraped the insides of his cheeks with it, and put it in a separate bag. He brought the samples down to a lab technician – not Simmons, he didn't want to involve her in this – and said, "Run DNA on these. I want to know if they're from the same person."

* * *

" _Kill yourself."_ That thought always came to him in his mother's voice.

Ward wasn't crazy. He didn't 'hear voices'. He knew reality from fantasy. It was just that his thoughts weren't very unified sometimes. He lacked clarity, he lacked cohesion. So while he didn't hallucinate per se, he imagined his thoughts through the voices of people he had known, and those thoughts sometimes felt as though they were out of his control. That was normal. At least, Ward was pretty sure it was normal.

He had random, irrational, destructive urges and he heard those in the voice of his older brother, though Christian never would have deigned to say such uncouth things.

"Set a forest fire!" chanted Christian. "Kill the president! Sabotage a traffic signal!"

Other thoughts came to him in random guises or in no voice at all.

He was hoping that one of these voices would say something useful sometime soon, because he had no idea what to do. Had he made the wrong choice with Curtis? Maybe he should have gone through with the original plan and tricked Coulson into killing the boy. Maybe he never should have removed Curtis from the detention center. Maybe he should have kept Curtis as his own son – he'd be a better father than Coulson, wouldn't he?

It was at times like this that Ward missed Garrett. Yes, Garrett had been his captor and his abuser, but also his leader and his mentor. Garrett had provided direction and purpose. Ward could be clever in pursuing his goals, but he never fully understood how to select goals in the first place.

Ward was floundering and his mind wasn't helping.

 _Attack the SHIELD base. Kill May._

And how am I supposed to do that?

 _Kill yourself!_

Shut up.

 _Set a house on fire! Set a car on fire! Set a bridge on fire!_

Bridges aren't made of combustible materials.

 _An old wooden bridge. A covered bridge, like in New England._

Shut up.

 _Rescue Curtis._

What if he needs to be rescued from me?

 _Kill Curtis._

 _Overthrow the Ossetian government._

 _Make Coulson kill Curtis._

 _Execute Miles. He's a traitor._

 _Order a pizza._

 _Destroy Hydra._

 _Kill yourself._

God, how did anyone choose anything? Brains were worthless. Ward didn't know what to do and he had no way to decide. He would kill the remaining people on his family's lists – that was a given. He had sworn to do so and he kept his promises. But what else? What next? What more?

The answer came to him with uncommon clarity: he would let fate decide. He would cast the dice and follow wherever they led. He didn't have to choose. He could let the world choose for him.

* * *

 _Grant is ten years old. He is arguing with his parents – with his mother, really, because his father is too drunk to say or do much of anything._

" _I wish I were dead!" he screams. He's not really thinking about his own death, but he saw someone say it on TV and it seemed to help the situation. His family never acts like the families on television and he still hopes that – with the right words – he can change them._

 _His mother turns on her heel and walks to the enormous oaken bureau that dominates the entry room and removes a small pistol from within. Is it loaded? Grant doesn't think they store it loaded, but he's not sure. Mother hands him the gun, handle first. "Kill yourself," she says in a matter-of-fact voice. "I'm so sick of your drama."_

 _Grant's mouth is dry. He's actually holding a gun. "Dad would get in trouble."_

 _Mother laughs. She leans forward as if speaking into a microphone. "Of course," she says, "we kept our son's mental health problems private. We tried everything to help him. But," she sniffles, "his suicide," her voice breaks on the word, "is not only our family's tragedy, but a sign that we as a nation need a renewed focus on children's mental health." The thick, sobbing quality to her voice disappears. "He'd be re-elected on pity alone."_

 _Distantly, Grant notices that Mother talks about Dad as though Dad weren't in the room. Grant's hands are shaking._

" _Go on, then," says Mother. "Do it. Kill yourself. You worthless, whiny-"_

 _There's a clatter as the gun falls to the ground. Grant runs out of the house. It's chilly and he has no jacket but he doesn't care. He runs as far and as fast as he can until he falls down face-first. He screams into the pine needles and the dirt._

* * *

"Mazel tov," said May drily, looking at the report. The two saliva samples were not a perfect match. They were instead a 50% match, which meant they could only have come from first-degree relatives, like a sibling…or a son.

"Thanks," said Coulson, matching her sarcasm tone-for-tone.

"How the hell did Ward…"

"That's what I've been thinking about all day." Coulson looked to the side. "Garrett might have been able to tell him which cities, which bars. And Hydra had my blood. They drew plenty of samples when they kidnapped me." He shook his head. "It still would have been an incredible amount of work."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," whispered Coulson. "I don't know."


	13. Chapter 13

They honestly didn't notice the first victim in Ward's newest wave of attacks. An old woman. Primarily neurological symptoms. Paralysis. Death by natural causes.

* * *

Coulson was having a hard time tearing himself away from the Vault D security footage. The boy didn't do anything particularly interesting. He played video games, he exercised, he sat cross-legged with hands folded and head bowed as if in prayer. But he had little mannerisms that matched Phil's own. The way he dragged his lips to the left when he lost at a video game. The way he rolled his shoulders forward as he stood. The way he licked both sides of the fork in between bites. Were those things inherited? Or was Coulson just making too much out of meaningless coincidences?

There was a knock on his office door. He cut the feed as he said, "Come in."

"Director," said Skye. She paused and waited for him to nod in response before continuing. Must be a habit May was encouraging. "I got a message from Miles," she said excitedly. "I've been leaving notes on message boards, just like you asked and I finally got something back. I mean, sort of. Indirectly. He reposted one of his manifestos but with this decryption key that-" Skye interrupted herself. "You don't need all the details. He put a coded message in it. It says, 'I want out'."

"Nothing else?"

"The cryptographic method he used only works for short messages."

"Can you track it?"

"Working on it. It's definitely from a stolen cell phone because there's no way in hell Miles would be caught dead using an LG voluntarily."

"You think he'll cooperate with us?"

"I think I wouldn't ask my ex to break me out of a cult unless I was really desperate."

* * *

" _And now, in health news, the Centers for Disease Control are reporting an unusually high number of rabies cases identified over the past six weeks. Viewers are urged vaccinate their pets, avoid contact with unknown animals, and seek immediate treatment following any bite that breaks the skin."_

* * *

Ward called his followers together and he led them into the wilderness. He knew now that it was time to let fate take control. They entered a small clearing and sat on the ground in a circle.

Ward withdrew a small plastic vial from his jacket pocket. In it were three pills. Three pills, four followers. He opened the vial and tapped one pill out into his palm. With his left hand, he passed the capsule to Soames. With his right, he touched her forehead. "May your breaths be one thousand by one thousand before you find justice."

He took another pill into his palm and handed it to Joseph. Again, he rested his hand on his follower's forehead. "May your breaths be one thousand by one thousand before you find peace.

He took the last pill and extended it to Nevaeh. He lay hands on her forehead for three long breaths. Then he signed and spoke simultaneously, "May your breaths be one thousand by one thousand before you find closure."

He turned to Miles. "I know what you are," said Ward. "And your breaths will be one thousand by one thousand before I let you die."

Ward nodded to the others. They whispered (or signed) a prayer and then they all took their capsules at once. They knew it couldn't be poison, or his thousand-by-thousand speech would make no sense. So, they didn't hesitate. They trusted Ward.

They trusted Ward as the cocoons formed around them.

* * *

" _The CDC is now confirming thirteen rabies deaths this year, compared to only two in the past-"_

Coulson turned off the newsfeed. "And they're all on our list of likely victims?"

May nodded.

Coulson grimaced. "How the hell did he do this?"

Simmons gripped her clipboard. "The rabies infection can be stopped if a vaccination series is administered soon after the bite, but it has to be before symptoms set in. We're guessing he found a way to spread the disease through contaminated mail. No bite, so no one sought treatment. It takes weeks, sometimes months before the symptoms are severe enough to be identified."

"You're saying there could be more?"

"It's possible."

"Contact everyone on the list and get them vaccinated."

"Yes, sir," said Simmons.

"We have to stop him," said May.

"If you have any ideas," said Coulson. Tracking down one man in a country of almost four hundred million was hard enough, but one who had the same espionage training they did, one who had resources and contacts, one who could live off the grid indefinitely? They were spinning their wheels and they knew it.

"I-I might have an idea, Director," said Simmons, hesitantly.

Coulson nodded encouragingly.

"It's…it's going to sound worse than it is." Simmons swallowed hard. "We can't seem to get to where he is. Why not bring him to us?"

"You're suggesting Skye as bait?" asked May.

"Um, no. I mean, perhaps, if you think that will work, but…well, what do you think he would do if he thought the boy were being mistreated?"

Coulson looked green at the suggestion.

"Not that we actually would," clarified Simmons. "But if we could fake a message from the boy to Ward…"

"Based on Garner's profile," said May, "Ward would come running."

* * *

 _This is a short chapter to set up the finale, which should be posted very soon!_

 _By the way, 1,000,000 breaths will take an average adult about a month and a half. Ward is in his endgame, but leaving himself some wiggle room. Or maybe it just sounded cool._

 _Also, rabies has to be transmitted from a live host (typically a mid-size mammal, like a dog or raccoon) to a human. But, you know, Hydra. They worked it out._


	14. Chapter 14

_The first section of this chapter contains a mildly graphic description of consensual sex with BDSM elements, so use your best judgment. Or use someone else's best judgment. Or don't use judgment at all. Why would you have to obey me? I'm a writer, not a cop._

* * *

Grant and Kara had once stayed at a cheap motel called the McKinley Lodge, between a strip mall and an AME church. It wasn't as nice as their previous accommodations, but Grant was running low on cash and he preferred to avoid his drop points, in case SHIELD had staked them out. The place wasn't too bad – the towels were clean and the walls were thick – but it lacked air conditioning, so they lazed about and fucked each other in the midday heat while they waited for the sun to go down.

Despite all the ways that Kara Palamas and Grant Ward had been perfectly matched, they were sexually incompatible. Not that they hadn't had sex – they had done that quite a bit and found it pleasant – but they were both submissive, sexually speaking.

Kara had liked to be pinned at her wrists. Grant knew enough about Hydra and the Faustus brainwashing technique to know that wrist restraint must have reminded her of her torture at Whitehall's hands. He didn't know enough psychology to understand why she would want to re-experience the trappings of such a miserable moment while they were fucking, but it was clear she did. She had asked him to hold her down, soft and plaintive, and he could hardly be expected to deny her. Grant didn't particularly enjoy the position; he liked to use his mouth and his hands on his partners. It didn't allow for much spontaneity either – he simply pinned her down, kissed her and rubbed against her, let go of one wrist momentarily to guide himself in, and then thrust until they were both finished. But Kara had loved it, and Grant couldn't resist the way her eyes fluttered when she came.

Grant had asked her once to choke him. That was what he liked. And Kara said yes because she always said yes. He had been her king, he knew, and she had wanted to please him. She had seemed willing, interested. She hadn't judged his predilections the way that May had. It was Grant's best orgasm in months and he had promptly fallen asleep afterward. He awoke an hour or so later to find Kara, in the bathroom, wearing only her panties. (This was more concerning than finding her completely nude, because it meant she had begun to dress, but gotten derailed somehow.) Her face was rapidly changing from one image to another and she was whispering promises of compliance to an imagined Daniel Whitehall.

Grant put on boxers and a t-shirt. He wasn't stupid. He knew that something about the sex had set her off and further nudity probably wouldn't help. He wrapped her in her bathrobe and guided her back to bed. "It's okay," he said to her. "We won't do that again."

Kara seemed to take comfort in that. Her face-shifting slowed, though it didn't stop entirely. "I'm happy to comply," she said softly.

She needed something, he knew. Closure. A way to finally purge the hold that Hydra had established on her brain. But he couldn't give that to her right now. He was supposed to just _comfort_ her. How the hell was he supposed to do that? No one had ever comforted him. The closest thing was Skye buying him that drink in Ireland. He had only ever seen it on television. You just hug the other person and say exactly the right thing and maybe sing to them? Something like that? Or was that how you put a baby to sleep?

Grant put his arm around Kara and drew her close. She was rocking back and forth, so he rocked with her. That didn't seem to be accomplishing much. It was terribly stuffy in the room so he opened the porch window in hopes of tempting a breeze. The fresh air seemed to bring down the tension in the room. With the window open, Grant could hear the AME choir rehearsing next door. He sat back down next to Kara, having no better ideas than to hold her hand and listen to the choir while he waited for the episode to pass.

The choir sang, " _Oh sinner man,_ _where you gonna run to?_

 _Sinner man, where you gonna run to?_

 _Where you gonna run to?_

 _All on that day._ "

* * *

Coulson lingered outside of the door to Vault D. He'd only told May thus far. He could back out. They could transfer the boy to a civilian facility, a good one. He'd heard that Oregon had some very progressive juvenile detention policies.

No.

Coulson still didn't know what to do, but he wasn't going to hide from a thirteen-year-old boy while he figured it out.

He opened the vault door. The laser grid was engaged around the cell, of course. It was opaque, solid and soundproof. He adjusted the controls to drop the grid in a 2m*1m rectangle, then to reengage after 600ms. He wasn't going to meet his son from behind a screen.

"You knew," said Coulson when he entered the cell. He had considered all kinds of more profound statements, but that was what spilled out of his mouth. The kid knew. He hadn't felt this nervous about conversation since he was a sweaty sixteen-year-old trying to get a prom date.

"I'm not gonna suck your dick," said Curtis, rolling on his heels so he was crouched next to his cot. He looked wary. Then, his expression changed and his voice deepened. "I'm good at it, you know." It was a dare and a challenge and a plea all at once.

"I'm not here to hurt you." Coulson held up his hands – well, his hand and his stump. "Or touch you," he added. "I just want to talk."

Curtis gave no sign of agreeing to a conversation, but he didn't actively resist either. Coulson decided it was the best opening he was going to get. "I've never been a father before," said Coulson, "but I had a very good father, so I hope-"

"You've been a father for thirteen years," said Curtis, "just a really shitty one."

"I didn't know you existed. If I had known..." Coulson trailed off, because he couldn't really imagine an alternate life in which he dropped out of SHIELD or resigned himself to a desk job, a life in which he never met Stark or Skye or Captain America, was never killed, never resurrected. "Right now, I want to do what's best for you."

"Then let me go back with Grant. I like him. He helped me. He took care of me." _Unlike you_ went unsaid.

"I know you don't believe me, but Ward gave you to us voluntarily."

"You're right, I don't believe you." Perhaps aware that he sounded sulky, Curtis changed tactics. "Why not my mom? Just send me back to live with her."

"Curtis," said Coulson, as gently as he was able, "did she ever visit you when you were locked up?" Like a lawyer, he only asked questions to which he already knew the answers.

"It was a long way away, like, a three hour drive."

"Did she ever call you? Write letters? Put money in your commissary?" Records showed that Curtis had received exactly one letter (a Christmas card) during his incarceration, and that his only visits were from the Little Sisters of Charity.

"I understand why Grant hates you so much," said Curtis, cold. "You should execute me. Because if you let me live, I promise I will kill you."

Coulson didn't look afraid, he just looked sad. "I don't know if there was a way I could have changed all of this, but if there was and I missed it, I'm sorry."

Curtis bowed his head and whispered to himself again, too quietly for Coulson to make out.

"Are you praying?" asked Coulson. "Do you have practice religion?"

"It's not that kind of prayer," said Curtis. For once, he didn't sound hostile. "It's more like a story. Do you want to hear it?"

"Yes," said Coulson, "yes, I do."

" _Oh sinner man,_ " began Curtis, " _where you gonna run to?_ "

* * *

 _Well I run to the rock_

 _Please hide me, I run to the rock_

 _Please hide me, I run to the rock_

 _Please hide me, Lord_

 _All on that day_

"Why aren't you taking a pill?" asked Miles, shifting his weight. Without actually breaking into a sprint, he was trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fibrous cocoons that now enclosed Joseph, Nevaeh, and Soames.

"It won't work on me," said Ward. "Won't work on you, either. We don't have the right kind of talent."

"Why are we out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Because I don't know what their talents are going to be."

Miles felt his phone buzz in his pocket, two short hums and a long one. A private message on the KaoS message board. He wondered if he would have a chance to glance at it while Grant did whatever creepy unbelievable video game magic he was involved in now. He took another step back, jamming his hand into his pocket.

There was a loud crackling noise, almost like the sound of frying an egg as the cocoons began to vibrate. Ward smiled blithely, seeming wholly unconcerned the he had just called forth some kind of eldritch horror.

Miles very slowly, very quietly, pulled out his phone. Skye must have gotten his message. She remembered their old forays into cryptography. That was good. That was to both of their benefit. …especially given the content of the message.

* * *

 _But the rock cried out_

 _"I can't hide you" the rock cried out_

 _"I can't hide you" the rock cried out_

 _"I ain't gonna hide you, guy_

 _All on that day"_

There was a sound like the tearing of rock and the first cocoon opened. It looked empty. Had Joseph been judged unworthy? Were his talents less impressive than Grant had believed? But no, it wasn't empty. Joseph was there, but he was very hard to see. Not precisely invisible, but he and all his clothes were thin and imprecise, as if he were only an afterimage of himself. Grant stepped forward and embraced him as a brother.

Soames emerged next. She stretched her arms and rolled her neck as if emerging from a long car ride. She looked the same as she had before. She scratched at her scalp and hair fell to the ground in thick tufts. The hair loosened from her arms and eyebrows, falling away with a light touch. She pinched her skin. She bit the fleshy part of her palm. She took the hunting knife from her belt and slashed across the inside of her elbow. There were sparks. There was no blood. Grant shook her hand as an equal.

Nevaeh could be heard clawing at the inside of her cocoon. Soames made as if to help her, but Ward gestured for them to wait. Nevaeh could manage full well on her own. The clawing turned to kicking and punching and finally, a small hole emerged. The small hole got bigger and the new woman joined her family.

* * *

 _I said, "Rock what's the matter with you, rock?_

 _Don't you see I need you, rock?"_

 _Lord, Lord, Lord_

 _All on that day_

Coulson recognized to the song, even though Curtis was speaking, not singing. Most Americans his age did. You didn't have to know jazz to know Nina Simone.

It told the story of a sinner who tries to flee the wrath of a merciless God on judgment day. The allegory wasn't particularly sophisticated. Coulson supposed he was supposed to be the sinner and Ward, or perhaps Curtis himself, would play the role of God and cast him into hell. The boy's recitation was fierce and focused, almost frightening in its intensity.

There was a moment in Phil Coulson's youth, soon after his father's death, when he screamed hateful words at his mother, angry at her for not being him. A few hours later, full of guilt, lip trembling, he apologized. He hadn't meant what he said and he felt ashamed. But his mother forgave him and embraced him. She absorbed his overflowing grief.

Maybe that was what Phil had to do. Forget about what was fair and what was rational and just take in all the anger that Curtis wanted to throw at him.

* * *

 _So I run to the river_

 _It was bleedin', I run to the sea_

 _It was bleedin', I run to the sea_

 _It was bleedin'_

 _All on that day_

Hunter was sure his shot had landed – the short-haired woman was knocked back – but there was no blood. He had hit her clean. "Something's off about Number Two – she shook off a bullet to the shoulder. Maybe they've got body armor?"

"Did you hear the Kevlar?" asked May's voice through the comm.

"Negative. But I might not hear it at this distance."

There were either three or four intruders in the compound, including Ward. Heat signature said four, but they could only get visual on three. They had planned for this attack, had all but sent Ward an embossed invitation, but that didn't mean they knew what to do with Captain Fucknut McCrazypants and his freak crew when they got there. Hunter could feel his inner critic balk at the characterization. (Fine, I'll apologize. I'm sorry. They're not _freaks_. They're _genetically and morally diverse_.)

Hunter heard footsteps and spun around. Nothing. A trick of echoes? He looked up at the ceiling-mounted mirror to see if someone had just ducked around the corner. No, no one.

 _Damn_ , thought Hunter, _I must be getting paranoid in my old age._

He lowered his weapon and took a step down the corridor before being knocked unconscious with a fire extinguisher.

* * *

 _So I run to the river, it was boilin'_

 _I run to the sea, it was boilin'_

 _I run to the sea, it was boilin'_

 _All on that day_

When the alarm went off, Morse forced herself to put on her combat gear, no matter how much her leg didn't want to bend and how much her shoulder didn't want to stretch. She was most of the way through one boot when there was a knock. The door opened without waiting for a response. "Guard these two," said Mack, gesturing for Fitz and Simmons to get into Morse's quarters. "He might come after them."

"It's not that we're not combat trained-" began Simmons.

"I stabbed a man with a pipe. Sort of on accident," said Fitz, in a tone that indicated he was both proud of and bewildered by this achievement.

Bobbi nodded her acknowledgement to Mack, who turned and trotted down the corridor in search of Hunter's bulletproof woman.

* * *

 _So I run to the Lord_

 _"Please hide me, Lord_

 _Don't you see me prayin'?_

 _Don't you see me down here prayin'?"_

Mack ran down the east corridor, trying to catch up with Skye. They still hadn't located Ward yet. He saw someone through the cross hallway impossibly fast. What the hell were they dealing with?

He heard a light tap followed by a swishing noise. Someone was trying to walk quietly and not exactly succeeding. He pulled out his phone to give himself an excuse to look back. The passageway was empty. He started to trot forward again and he heard the same tap-swish. He was being followed by the goddamn Predator. There were some people on this base who would find that kind of exciting. Not Mack. He was just pissed. He dashed into the breakroom and grabbed a can of coffee grounds from the shelf. When the tap-swish got closer, he threw it on the ground.

Foot prints.

The invisible man was in restraints. One down.

Mack returned to the corridor to catch up with Skye. She was crawling.

"The fast woman," said Skye, "she's been knocking people over. I think her power is something about friction. It wears off a few minutes after she leaves."

They could feel an explosion, followed by gunfire. They exchanged glances

"Can you stand?"

He helped Skye to her feet. She still looked like she was trying to walk on an ice rink, but she was moving faster that crawling. They turned right, racing toward the combat, Mack practically dragging Skye along. In the northwest atrium, two guards lay bleeding on the ground, surrounded by shattered glass. A white woman with short hair was holding an AK-47 and grinning. She had bullet holes in her shirt, but no sign of blood.

"May," said Skye into her communicator, "I think we found Hunter's invulnerable woman."

On the other end of the connection, May grunted. She was grappling with a relatively untrained warrior who was alternately making her slip and stick to things. May rolled her eyes. This was getting out of hand. She drew her backup pistol from her left boot and shot the woman in the kneecap.

"Shake her head," said May, knowing full well that this would be a difficult command. Skye still didn't have full control over her powers, and while she had killed in combat, she'd never done so in such a visceral way. Still, they weren't messing around. That woman was the only one who was carrying an automatic weapon. She was there to kill them, which meant they had to take her out first.

"You have to hold me steady," said Skye to Mack. She leaned back against his arms, unsure whether her stance actually had anything to do with her powers but unwilling to risk it at the moment.

The woman leveled her gun at them just as Skye raised her hands. ' _Aim inside'_ thought Skye, chanting to herself, ' _aim inside, aim inside_.' The woman began to vibrate, head slamming backward and tongue rolling out. Her left arm dropped limply and she fell to the ground in a seizure. Then her right side went limp and her breathing stopped.

* * *

 _But the Lord said, "Go to the Devil"_

 _The Lord said, "Go to the Devil"_

 _He said, "Go to the Devil"_

 _All on that day_

Curtis was gradually widening his stance, tightening his muscles, baring his teeth. There was a ferocity in his words. He made eye contact with Coulson as he recited the sinner's banishment by the Lord, and in that moment, Coulson realized he was not being cast as the sinner, but as the neglectful and distant God who abandoned his supplicant to Satan's tender mercies.

" _So I ran to the Devil_ ," yelled Curtis, " _He was waitin'_." His hands formed into fists. " _I ran to the Devil, he was waitin'._ " The boy took a step forward while Coulson found himself curiously unable to move. " _I ran to the Devil, he was waitin'_ … _All on that day_." Curtis finished his recitation in a whisper before launching himself at his father, a whirl of fists and feet.

Curtis weighed ninety three pounds and had only been formally trained in combat for less than a year. Under normal circumstances, Coulson would win any physical altercation handily. These were not normal circumstances. Firstly, Coulson was getting older and spending less and less time in the field – he wasn't as agile as he used to be. Secondly, he had been trained as a two-handed combatant and had yet to retrain in one-handed techniques. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, he could not bring himself to hit or harm his son in any way.

So Curtis's blows were landing. Hard. Across Coulson's ribs, his gut, his face, his groin. He could feel a fist connect with his eye socket, hear the bone fracture. Coulson deflected the attacks where he could, but for every one he turned away, another met its mark. He stumbled backwards.

Curtis seemed prepared for this. He grabbed the thin blanket that lay on his bed and spun around behind Coulson, wrapping it around his neck. He stood on the bed to give himself leverage. He couldn't generate enough force to lift Coulson off the ground, but he could block blood and oxygen from-

"Curtis." Grant Ward stood at the entrance to the vault. He had no weapons in his hands, though he probably had quite a few on his person. Fate had brought him to this place at this time. Fate had given him the false message through Miles (who was currently handcuffed to a bridge, but that was neither here nor there). Fate had transformed his followers into the distractions he needed to get inside. These things were signs. It didn't matter if they were 'true'. He was supposed to be here and now.

And if it was given that he was supposed to be here and now, then there were only two possibilities: Grant was supposed to help Curtis or stop him. Fate remained silent on the subject.

All Grant knew was that he didn't like the way it looked, the boy strangling the man. It was something he had fantasized about almost continuously as a child – killing the people who had wronged him – but this scene before him didn't have the same sense of satisfaction attached to it.

Because Curtis didn't look dominant. He didn't look strong, even though he had nearly killed one of the most powerful men in the world. He looked like a thirteen-year-old kid. Grant wondered what he looked like when he killed people.

"Stop," said Ward.

"I have to-" began Curtis.

"No, no you have to stop."

"Why?" asked Curtis as he dropped the blanket. "We planned this. We talked about this. We were going to-"

"Eres fuerte," said Ward, _'you're strong'_. "No eres malo _."_ _'You're not evil'._ The vault door was opening behind him. Whatever distraction time his followers had bought him was obviously coming to an end. Ward knelt on the ground, fingers laced behind his head.

"Somos fuertes!" _We are strong! "_ Juntos!," _Together!"_ Curtis cried out plaintively, almost desperately.

Ward just smiled and shook his head as the dendrotoxin round took him down.

* * *

 _Very long chapter is over. Only one chapter left._


	15. Chapter 15

_Miles was freed by local law enforcement who spent the following fourteen weeks trying to find something to charge him with. When they failed, he moved to an offshore server farm to promote net neutrality._

 _Soames died from the injuries she incurred during the assault on the Playground._

 _Joseph died by suicide. It simply wasn't possible to adequately search an invisible man for cyanide._

 _Nevaeh recovered from her injuries. She was incarcerated in a SHIELD holding facility in hopes that she could be rehabilitated._

* * *

Coulson gathered his advisory council as well as those who were most personally affected by Ward's crimes. That meant May, Weaver, Morse, Skye, Fitz, Simmons, and the Koenig brothers. (Given their nature, they were collectively represented by Billy and would have only one vote. This also meant that Coulson could recuse himself, leaving an odd number of votes.) Coulson was beginning to appreciate the distinction between having good instincts and being a good leader. Even if they came to the exact conclusion he had already reached, the end result would be better if everyone had a chance to contribute to the outcome.

May spoke first. "You know what I think."

"Last time he was locked up, he tried to kill himself," said Fitz. "Maybe death is just what he wants."

"I'm not comfortable advocating for an execution without a jury trial." said Weaver. She was the only one present who hadn't been personally victimized by Ward. "It sets a very problematic precedent, especially given your personal relationship with the defendant and his victims."

Everyone was quiet for a moment. A jury trial was out of the question. Ward couldn't be remanded to civilian custody without virtually guaranteeing his escape.

"Before SHIELD and everything," said Skye, "I never believed in the death penalty. I figured as long as you could lock someone up for life, why not do that instead? But I don't know if we can actually lock Ward up for life. He's escaped before."

"Well," said Fitz, "I mean, as long as he's in stasis, he's not going anywhere."

Simmons shook her head. "We can't leave him in the stasis machine indefinitely. For one thing, that would prevent anyone else from using it. Moreover, prolonged immobility will inevitably lead to blood clots. It would just be a slow execution."

"There are ways," said Morse, "if we were serious about keeping him alive and preventing escape." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Cut off his legs. Damage his organs so he needs a drug only we can provide. Paralyze him. Don't you have a machine that can rewrite memory? Delete all his memories of espionage and combat training." She shrugged with her one good shoulder. "That's off the top of my head."

"I think he should die," said Billy. "I just want to say that."

"If we used the TAHITI machine," said Skye, "we could make him into a new person minus the constant murdering. Like an evilectomy. Then he wouldn't want to escape."

"If he's a new person," said Fitz, "why would we lock him up for something the old Ward did? That would be like imprisoning a man for his twin brother's crimes." Fitz was trying very hard not to stare at Keonig as he discussed the philosophical and ethical implications of identical twins.

"I think we're getting ahead of ourselves," said Coulson. "We've established that we probably can incarcerate Ward indefinitely if we disable him somehow. Still, the magnitude and quantity of his crimes is hard to ignore. The question is whether or not to execute him."

* * *

Curtis made an incoherent grunting sound and turned to face the side wall. He was barely tolerating the most annoying hour of his day, when his Y-chromosome donor made awkward attempts at conversation for sixty minutes.

"You're being rude," said Coulson.

"I tried to _murder_ you and you're worried about my manners?" The fact of the matter was, looking at Coulson, at the bruises and abrasions on his face, made Curtis feel guilty.

Coulson just smiled tolerantly as if Curtis had been out after curfew. "Well, don't do it again."

"I've done _a lot_ of stuff. Bad stuff."

"I hope you'll tell me about those things someday." Coulson's brow drew forward and his eyes got smaller. He sucked in a breath. "I don't know what Ward told you about his life, but from what I can gather, he was…lost at your age. He would have given anything for someone, for a good person, to take him in and save him. Instead, he ended up with the devil. I think what he wanted when he went to find you was to see what it would be like to change the direction of someone's life at thirteen, before there are too many things that can't be fixed."

"And now you want to save me?" For once, Curtis didn't sound hostile. If anything, he sounded younger than he was.

"I want to try."

* * *

It was Skye who delivered the news. "The vote was four to three against."

Ward tried unsuccessfully to make his eyes focus and suppress a yawn. "Who were the three?" he mused. "May, Simmons, and Morse?" he guessed, sounding drowsy and unconcerned.

"I think you should worry more about the four people who decided to save your sorry ass," though in truth, Skye knew that those votes more likely represented an unwillingness to administer capital punishment via military tribunal than any sort of concern for Ward per se. She herself had felt pity for him at times, but more the way you felt sorry for a sick animal that had to be put out of its misery. She had voted against killing him, though she couldn't precisely say why. They had cast their ballots anonymously. Skye had been certain that Koenig had voted in favor of execution, but that meant that one of Ward's guesses had to be wrong. Skye realized she could keep thinking like this indefinitely. It didn't really matter.

Ward just raised his eyebrows and said nothing. He yawned again. "Is Curtis-"

"You don't get that kind of information," snapped Skye. "You kidnapped a child. You're not a good guy just because you let him go."

"I'm not a good guy," echoed Ward, his eyes half-shut, his voice vague and distant. "I've known that for a long time." He shuddered, a common side effect of the sedatives. "I wanted to…I was trying to…but I don't know how. I never have."

"You have a choice to make," said Skye. "And you have to be awake to decide. We're going to change you so you can't escape. That's not optional. But you get to choose what we take. We can do it with surgery or we can do it with the memory machine. Either way, you have to stay here. In a SHIELD vault. For the rest of your life."

"So you're going to kill me," said Ward softly. "Kill me and replace me with someone else."

"I can't accept an answer from you until you're totally awake, but if half the stuff you've said about your life is true, I would think you'd want to forget some things."

Ward's eyes were almost entirely closed. "I'm sorry," he said in a semi-conscious non-sequitur, "that meeting your parents didn't go the way you'd hoped."

* * *

"What's all that junk doing down here?" Curtis looked out through the laser barrier, currently transparent. There was a bed, a dresser, a desk, a sofa, shelves, several portable walls, and a bunch of boxes.

"You can't be out in free society yet," said Phil, "but I don't think it's healthy for you to be in solitary, so I'm moving down here."

Curtis scowled much the way any thirteen-year-old would at the prospect of sharing tight quarters with a parent. "Don't expect me to thank you."

"I expected no such thing."

"Can't you just send me to regular jail? Or if you keep me here, can't you just lock me up with Grant?"

"No," said Coulson, putting books on a shelf in twos and threes. He stopped unpacking and looked at Curtis. "You knew Ward as the man who helped you when no one else would. I understand why you're loyal to him. I knew Ward as a man who did a lot of terrible things to some very good people, in part because he was loyal to a man who helped him." Coulson reached down into the box and picked up his Lucite-encased Bucky Barnes trading card. "I don't expect us to be a happy family right away. Maybe ever. But sometimes a parent's job is to keep their kid from making a bad decision. And I'm doing that for you right now."

* * *

 _Eight weeks later_

Ward had refused memory modification. He had not provided any reason for his decision, had only stated it repeatedly. Literally amputating his legs or breaking his spine seemed barbaric, so Simmons had been tasked with finding an alternate solution. She synthesized a substance which nonreversibly damaged receptors at the neuromuscular junctions of striated muscle. The effect was not to paralyze, but to drastically weaken all voluntary muscles. He would be able to move, but any exertion would be exhausting.

So when Coulson appeared in front of his cell, it took Ward a few seconds to stand in greeting.

"Director," said Ward.

"Assistant Director, now. I stepped down to accommodate the new responsibilities in my life."

For a moment, Ward was very clearly considering who might have taken Coulson's place. Surely not May. A leadership position was too social for her, went against her predilections. Morse? Fitz? There weren't a lot of options. Then he decided it didn't much matter and he switched to blithe sarcasm. "Congratulations on your demotion."

Coulson looked to the left and took a slow breath before beginning what were obviously prepared remarks. "Ward, whatever other plans you may have had, you brought me my son.

You…protected him as best you knew how." Coulson's lips twitched as if he were shaking a fly from them. "Commuting your sentence is not an option, but I owe you."

"Your eye is looking better," said Ward, gesturing to Coulson's face. "Maybe you should see if he tries to kill you again before you thank me."

"Is that what you were like at his age?"

Ward shrugged. "Not exactly. But in some ways, yes."

Coulson nodded slowly. Silence fell between them. They both looked ahead, but not quite at each other. Finally, Coulson spoke. "I don't want to see you as a monster, because if you are, then what does that mean for-" He stopped as if interrupted. There was no need to finish his sentence.

"If you love him like you love Skye," said Ward, "he'll be all right."

Coulson wasn't sure what to say to that. It was an optimistic sentiment, but it wasn't as though Ward was really knowledgeable about child development or rehabilitation psychology. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square of fabric. He passed it into the cell. "It's on Tyvek, not paper, so you can keep it."

It was a photograph of Curtis in civilian clothing, not prison scrubs, playing videogames with Skye. It wasn't the clearest picture, but he looked happy.

"Thank you," said Ward. The words were slow and heavy. He was holding the picture gently, as if it might break.

"Well, as I said, I'm in your debt." Coulson paused and licked his lips. "I'm going to visit you. Regularly. Do you know how to play janngi?"

Ward looked confused. He shook his head.

Coulson tapped something on his console and a game board appeared in the laser grid wall. "It's a Korean game," he said. "My dad picked it up in the war. He taught it to me and I'd like to teach it to you."


End file.
